A Dead God's Tear(57)

A gloved hand struggled out of the wreckage, reaching toward the sky for a few moments before falling to the side, strength spent. Silence reigned. Slowly the wind picked up, dark clouds rolling in. A storm was forming.

Rain fell, gradually at first, washing away the dirt and forming muddy puddles in the street. As the rain thickened and the fires ceased, the occupant seemed to draw sustenance from the incessant beat of water, the fingers flexing, straining, as the rest of the arm forced itself from the debris. A human form emerged, freeing itself from the prison of wood and stone.

The assassin ripped off his mask, tossing it aside as he coughed up the contents of his stomach, trying desperately to clear his lungs and suck in air at the same time. There were flecks of blood amidst the contents of his stomach. After the dry heaves stopped, the assassin rested his head on his forearms, exhausted. The rain continued to fall, heedless of the man's plight, drenching him.

With little warning, the man screamed, leaning back on his knees as his rage took over. He had failed! There were no other survivors; instinctually the man knew this. His comrades in arms were all dead. He was the only one left. The team he trained with since he was a child, the job he was given, the expectations of the powers he served, all of it was covered, tainted, with that wretched word. Failure!

The scream echoed across the empty streets, carrying his laments to those who would hear. The moment seemed to stretch unrestrained before being abruptly cutoff, ended, leaving a vacant silence in its wake. A conclusion had been reached, and with it, a peace that had calmed the inner storm that raged within. The assassin, now sated, calmly stood, water streaming down his face.

Reaching down, he picked up his mask and leisurely slipped it on his head, the familiar feeling of the fabric across his face. The brief moment of weakness was gone and he was once again in the role he had known all his life. Noiselessly, he turned around and disappeared into the night.

A cold wind blew.

Vengeance.



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"Hurry up, lad," the gruff voice called over the sound of the breaking waves. "That sail ain't gonna trim itself."

Marcius bit back several responses, instead reaching up to pull on the sail line. Straining, he managed to reduce most of the slack and tie it off around the pole before collapsing against the railing. The barest hint of an ocean breeze blew across the deck of the ship, cooling the sweat that coated his body. It felt good and the apprentice greedily reveled in the brief respite.

The last few days had been difficult for the four of them. Simon's "friend" turned out to be a smuggler, a fact that Marcius didn't find surprising. He spent the next two days stuffed in a cramped secret compartment on the bottom of a hay cart.
     
 

     

The road from Harcourt to Yaeren, as if to mock him, had been bumpy and full of rocks.

Arriving at the coastal town did little to alleviate things. Yaeren was an apathetic and depressing place, beaten and worn by both the ocean weather and poverty. The ensuing hours were spent in intense negotiations with any ship captain they could find, trying desperately to find one that would allow them passage up north. Finally one accepted, but the bandit lord hadn't given them nearly enough gold to afford such a luxury, so they had to work for the difference. But it got them on a ship, and hopefully, in the clear.

"Alright, boy," the gruff voice of Captain Olaff said, breaking Marcius from his trance. "Go help the galley cook downstairs. He needs yer to open up the barrels again fer dinner."

Marcius sighed, but nodded anyway. "Alright, Captain."

Olaff chuckled, the situation now closed, and turned back toward his maps. Now no longer the focal point of the captain's attention, Marcius plodded his way toward the deck door that lead to the galley. He ignored the stares of the crew; he was beyond caring at their opinions of him. It wasn't like he had a chance at breaking into the brotherhood that naturally formed when men risked their lives together day in and day out. He doubted that his current performance did much to change the sea-hardened crew's opinion of him.

As he reached the door, he found his mind wandering. Marcius was no stranger to the labor of the sea, being a trader that had lived in a port town, but it was one thing to be in charge and another to be the one being told what to do. It was a sharp culture shock for the ex-trade prince.

He wished that he had a spell that would help him with such manual labor, but his Master had died before such a thing could be researched or practiced. Marcius did allow a brief smile to ghost on his lips at the thought of the dwarf reacting to such a request.

But the memory turned sour as he remembered his Master. Whoever had attacked his father and Master had taken everything from him, and he was determined to find them. . . and do what exactly? Kill them? Punish them? Bring them to justice?

Do not worry, Marc. We will find these people and they shall pay for taking our loved ones away.

The apprentice sent the familiar a flare of gratitude, but inwardly felt himself a bit disturbed at the notion. He hated these mysterious people and what they did to his life, but was it enough to kill them?

It was a question he had been wrestling with since they left. All he wanted was a simple life and to be left alone to his magic. Nothing made him happier than delving into the nether, using the Kra'nael to shape and form it to his will, and then seeing the tangible results of his efforts. It was thanks to magic that he met Faerill. The tiny familiar was the final piece to his puzzle. There was no comparison to someone that understood your every thought, felt your emotions, and was literally a piece of your soul.

And yet, he felt as if he owed his Master and father, to get back at their attackers. He wasn't very comfortable with the notion of revenge, but they were his family. He wasn't sure exactly what he would do when he found these attackers, but he would find them.

He didn't consider himself much, but he was, above all, fiercely loyal. He would go to the Academy and use them to become powerful enough to find the ones responsible. Until then, it was a question that would be unanswered, though he dreaded the moment.

Marcius was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he didn't see Alicia as he rounded the corner and found himself with an armful of woman. He recoiled as if she had been on fire. "Oh, Marcius. . . " she said nervously, ignoring his reaction, "I didn't see you there."

Is Alicia alright? She seems. . . different than before, Faerill asked, using their link to see through Marcius's eyes.

That was kind of obvious, considering the normally volatile Mage didn't rip his head off. He raised his eye critically at her. She did seem flushed, but paler than usual, and very distracted. Her clothing was disheveled and out of place, something very much unlike her.

Now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen her much of the time he had been on the ship. He knew that sailors, as superstitious as they were, didn't allow women to work on a ship. It was bad luck. But she seemed to be avoiding everyone, which was definitely out of character.

The more Marcius tossed it around, the more of a sneaking suspicion began to form in the back of his mind. "Alicia?" he said, the vestiges of a smile tugging the sides of his lips, "If I didn't know better, I would say you were seasick."

For a few seconds, the Alicia he knew flashed in her glare. "I don't know what you are talking about!" Marcius might have taken her a bit more seriously if she didn't also chose that moment to rush past him, her hand over her mouth, looking paler than ever.

So that was why she insisted going by land to Aralene from Rhensford! It took the threat of death to get her to go along with a sea route! The notion had Marcius laughing out loud for the first time in a very long time. It was a balm his psyche needed.

Disgusting. Alicia is throwing green chunks all over the side of the ship. It is quite the sight. Do you want me to use our shared sight to see, Marc?

I'll pass, Faerill.

Shaking his head, he continued down the hallway, ignoring the creaks and groans of the ship. "Heya, Marc! How nice of you to join us!" Simon said as Marcius walked into the galley. The bard and Jared had been here most of the day, peeling potatoes and generally helping the cook out.

Marcius flashed the bard a half-hearted smile. "Well, I figure you two could use some help. It was taking too long."

The cook, a large, graying man, pointed a grubby thumb to the back, and Marcius nodded, taking the hint. No further words were exchanged, but none were needed. There was that comforting silence between the three of them, the stillness of a moment where all the grievances were passed and the knowledge that they were in it together made it not so bad.

The barrels were large, easily half as tall as a man and half dozen hands wide. The top was a thick piece of wood, perfectly shaped and measured to fit snug within the entrance, and then soaked in water. This ensured expansion and an airtight seal, but proved to be maddening to remove after being set.

Marcius's hands, torn and sore from the day's work, wrapped themselves around the rope that served as a handle. There was brief moment that the apprentice took to compose his body, and then he yanked with everything he had, muscles bulging. He ignored the sharp line of fire that lanced up his fingers and hands, and was rewarded with the gradual nudge of the top loosening. He couldn't feel his hands anymore, but continued to pull. A part of him wondered if his beaten hands were bleeding yet.