The Cataclysm (11 page)

About three hours after midday, Gylar stumbled and had a hard time getting to his feet
again.

“I'm sorry, Marakion,” he said, shivering as he tried to stand up once more. “It's - It's
just so cold. I can't seem to make my legs work right.”

Marakion helped him to his feet. “You sure you want to keep going, kid?”

“Yes. I - I have to.” Shakily, Gylar moved forward again.

By evening, Marakion had to carry him. *****

A few hours after nightfall, Marakion gently set the boy down in the snow at the summit of
Mount Phineous. Lunitari was a thin crimson slash in the sky. Solinari was full and
bright; it bathed them in a sparkling wash. The untouched snow looked like flawless,
molten silver that had been poured over the top of the mountain and had hardened there.
The only thing that marred the icy, detached beauty was a straggling trail gouged up the
mountainside, a trail that led to the two solitary figures who had reached their
destination.

The stars shone brightly from all around. Marakion's cloak, wrapped around the boy, furled
and straightened softly in the breeze. His heavy breathing plumed out white in front of
his face.

“Here . . .” Gylar said in a whisper. He nodded, with a smile. “Yes, this is perfect, so
perfect.”

Marakion swallowed hard and knelt next to Gylar. He spread a blanket and moved the boy
onto it, then covered him with his own bedroll, trying to make him as warm as possible. “Let me be alone now, Marakion.” Gylar whispered, “I want to call Paladine. It's time for me to call him.” Marakion nodded, slowly rose from
his kneeling position, and walked a distance away. He scuffed the snow with his boot, wondering again
about this whole thing.

For an hour, Marakion walked about in the cold. He turned to watch Gylar from time to
time. He could see the boy's mouth move, hear him talking to the skies.

Another hour passed, this time in silence. Nothing answered Gylar's feeble summons.
Marakion tromped about, fuming. He knew he shouldn't have expected an answer, but suddenly
he was furious that none was coming.

After a time, Marakion realized the boy was beckoning weakly to him. The man was instantly
at the boy's side.

Gylar's flesh was almost completely wasted away. The effect of the fever over such a short
time was astounding. But there was a smile on the boy's face. “Marakion ...” He could
barely speak.

Marakion leaned forward. “Yes, Gylar.”

Gylar shook his head. “Paladine's not coming. He's not even going to - ” The boy was cut
off by a coughing fit. “He's not even going to drop a mountain on me, Marakion.”

Gylar set a shaky hand on Marakion's forearm. “Remember the ogre, Marakion? I was s-so
scared. It was going to eat me. You remember?”

Marakion nodded.

“You let it go, Marakion,” Gylar whispered. “You said for it to choose something else, a
deer or something. You said it had made the wrong choice. It didn't believe you, and you
beat it up, but you let it go. You forgave it, Marakion. You forgave it for being itself.
It didn't realize what it was doing.”

Marakion swallowed a lump in this throat. Gylar closed his eyes. His hand still gripped
the warrior's arm.

“Maybe Paladine didn't either, Marakion. Maybe he still doesn't. B - But that's okay. I
forgive him. It's okay. I forgive them all. . . .”

Gylar's grip went slack on Marakion's arm. Marakion grappled for the hand and caught hold
as it started to slip off. Squeezing his eyes shut, he bowed his head.

“Damn!” was all he said.

*****

Hours later, Marakion stood next to a grave he'd had to fight the cold earth and snow to
dig. His hands were blistered; Glint was caked in dirt.

Marakion did not speak a eulogy. Everything had already been said. Who would he speak
words of comfort to, anyway? The only ones able to hear on this distant, isolated
mountaintop were the gods, and they hadn't listened. This boy, alone, beneath the frosted,
snow-swept ground, could pardon a god for his mistake, though that one mistake had
destroyed everything Gylar had held dear.

Marakion adjusted the clasp at the neck of his cloak and pulled the edges together. He
took a last look at the sky from the summit of Mount Phineous.

“Somebody learned something from your show of godly power. HE forgives you.”

Marakion slowly began his descent down the mountain, continuing on his own hopeless quest.

“Revel in it, Paladine, because, by the Abyss, I don't.”

The road was blocked just over the crest of the hill. The ambush was nicely planned. Graym, leading the horses, hadn't seen the warriors until his group was
headed downhill, and there was no room to turn the cart around on the narrow, wheel-rutted
path that served as a road.

Graym looked at their scarred faces, their battered, mis- matched, scavenged armor, and
their swords. He smiled at them. “You lot are good thinkers, I can tell. You can't protect
yourselves too well these days.” He gestured at the cart and its cargo. “Would you like a
drink of ale?”

The armored man looked them over carefully. Graym said, “I'll do the honors, sir. That
skinny, gawking teenager - that's Jarek. The man behind him, in manacles and a chain, is
our prisoner, name of Darll. Behind him - those two fierce-looking ones, are Fenris and
Fanris, the Wolf brothers. Myself, I'm Graym. I'm the leader - being the oldest and” - he
patted his middle-aged belly, chuckling -

“the heaviest.” He bowed as much as his belly woud let him.

The lead man nodded. “It's them.”

His companions stepped forward, spreading out. The right wing man, flanking Graym, swung
his sword.

Darll pulled his hands apart and caught the sword on his chain. Sparks flew, but the chain
held. Clasping his hands back together, he swung the looped chain like a club. It thunked
into an armored helmet, and the wearer dropped straight to the ground soundlessly.

Jarek raised his fist, gave a battle cry. The Wolf brothers, with their own battle cry -
which sounded suspiciously like yelps of panic - dived under the ale cart, both trying
unsuccessfully to wedge themselves behind the same wheel.

The cart tipped, toppling the heavy barrels. The horses broke their harnesses and charged
through the fight. A cascade of barrels thundered into the midst of the fray. One attacker
lay still, moaning.

That left four. Darll kicked one still-rolling barrel, sent it smashing into two of the
attackers, then leapt at a third, who was groping for his dropped sword. Darll kicked the
sword away, lifted one of the barrel hoops over the man's head. The attacker raised his
arms to defend himself, neatly catching them in the hoop. Darll slammed him in the face
with his fist.

Jarek yelled, “Yaaa!” and threw a rock at the leader. The rock struck the man, knocked him
into Darll's reach.

Darll whipped his chain around the man's throat, throttling him. Hearing a noise behind
him, Darll let the man drop and spun around.

Two of the others were crawling to their knees. Darll kicked one and faced the other,
prepared to fight.

A hoarse voice cried, “No!”

The leader was gasping and massaging his throat. “Leave them. Let Skorm Bonelover get
them,” he told his men.

The attackers limped away, carrying their two unconscious comrades.

It was suddenly very quiet. The Wolf brothers, still under the cart, were staring at Darll
in awe. Jarek - a second rock cradled in his hand - was gazing at the fighter with
open-mouthed admiration. Graym took a step toward Darll glanced at the fleeing attackers, and stepped away again. “Six men,” Graym said. "Six
trained men-at-arms beaten by a man in chains.“ ”It'll make one helluva song,“ Darll said acidly. ”I suppose I'm still your prisoner?“ After a moment's thought, Graym nodded. ”Right, then.

Let's reload the barrels." Graym and Jarek tipped the cart back upright and propped a barrel behind the rear wheel. The first barrel was easy to load. Too easy. Graym handled
it by himself. He stared at it in surprise, then worked to load the second.

The third barrel was on, then suddenly and inexplicably it was rolling off.

The Wolf brothers, working on top, grabbed frantically and missed. The barrel slid down
the tilted cart. Darll fell back. Jarek, standing in the barrel's path, stared up at it
with his mouth open.

For a fat middle-aged man, Graym could move quickly. He slammed into Jarek, and both went
sprawling. The barrel crashed onto a rock and bounced off, spraying foam sideways before
it came to rest, punctured end up.

Graym, unfortunately, came to rest on top of Jarek.

Darll, manacles clanging, pulled Graym to his feet. “You all right?”

“Fine, sir, fine.” Graym felt his ribs and arms for breakage.

“Pity,” Darll grunted. “What about you, boy?” He bent down and helped Jarek up. “If you
only hurt your head, we're in luck.”

Jarek wheezed and gasped.

“He'll be fine,” Graym said, slapping Jarek's shoulder. Jarek collapsed again, and Graym
helped him up again. “Probably do us both good. Exercise new muscles.”

“Try thinking. That should exercise a new muscle for you.” Darll looked down at their
feet. Foam was seeping quickly into the ground. The smell of ale was overpowering.

Graym followed his glance. “Only another loss,” he said cheerfully. “Crisis of transport,
sir. Part of business.” He and Jarek limped over to the broken barrel.

Jarek, still wheezing, managed to say, “I'm sorry, Graym. You said 'Stop pushing when I
say now,' and that was when you said 'now,' so then I thought you meant 'now.' “ ”Don't you feel bad at all, boy.” Graym looked at the damp rock and the damp soil below it. “This'll drive the price up when we reach Krinneor.
Supply and demand.” He added, struck by it, “Makes the other kegs worth more.“ He finished, convinced, ”Best thing that could happen really.“ Graym shook Jarek's limp hand. ”Thank you for upping profits. A bold move - not one I'd have made - but worth it in the long run.”

Jarek smiled proudly. Darll snorted.

The Wolf brothers looked down from the perch on top of the cart. “Want us to roll another
off?” Fenris asked eagerly.

“Say when,” Fanris added. Graym shook his head. “Let's take inventory first.” The Wolf
brothers slid cautiously off the wagon. They looked (and claimed) to be several years older than Jarek, but no one would ever know
their real age until one of them washed, which was hardly likely. From their narrow
beetle- browed eyes to their black boots, they looked wickedly dangerous.

A songbird whistled, and the two jumped and crouched low behind the wagon wheel.

“Don't crawl underneath,” Graym pleaded. “That's how you tipped it the last time. It's all
right now. The bad men are gone. And they weren't that bad, once we got their weapons away
from them.”

“We? WE?” Darll demanded.

“I helped,” Jarek said proudly. “I threw a rock at one. You did most of it,” he added
honestly. “But you should have. You're supposed to be a great mercenary.”

“I'm SUPPOSED to be your prisoner” Darll said bitingly.

Graym put a hand on Darll's shoulder. “Don't take it so hard, sir. You're the Bailey of
Sarem's prisoner. We're just transporting you to Krinneor.” He patted Darll. “Think of us
as company.”

“I think of you,” Darll said bitterly, “the way I'd think of the underside of an owlbear's
- ”

“I'm going to be a mercenary like you someday,” Jarek broke in.

Fenris came out from behind the wagon wheel. He looked worried. “Did you hear what that
man said just before running off?”

“You mean the part about 'Let Skorm Bonelover take them'?” Fanris finished nervously. “I
heard it. What does it mean? Who's Skorm Bonelover?”

Graym was checking the fallen barrel. “An idle threat. Poor man, I don't think he was
happy.” He examined the sprung staves.

“You may be a cooper,” Darll said, “but you can't mend that.”

Graym felt along the keg sides, skilled hands finding the sprung barrel stave. “Not on the
road,” he said reluctantly. “And it's over half full still.”

The Wolf brothers edged forward hopefully. “Be a shame to let it go to waste, Fan.”

“Right again, Fen.”

Jarek, rubbing his head, looked meaningfully at the bung-puller stored inside the cart.

“Half a keg of Skull-Splitter Premium. Well . . .” Graym sighed loudly, then smiled. “Not
a bad place to camp.”

*****

They waited until nightfall to light the fire, so no one would see the smoke. They hung a
shield of blankets around the fire to hide the light. Both were Darll's idea. Graym saw no
need for such precautions, but was willing to humor him.

The sunset was blood red, like every one had been since the Cataclysm.

Graym sipped at the bowl of Skull-Splitter and said, to no one in particular, “Life is
attitude - good or bad.” He waved an arm at the desolate landscape. “What do you see?”

Darll grunted. “What else? Disaster. Broken trees, clogged streams, fallen buildings, and
a godsforsaken broken road rougher than a troll's - ”

“That's your problem, sir.” Graym thumped Darll's back. “You see disaster. I see
opportunity. Look here.” He traced a map in the dirt. “See this road?”

He looked up and realized that Darll - ale rolling in his mouth, eyes shut to savor the
flavor - wasn't seeing anything. “Excuse me, sir, but do you see the road?” “The road from Goodlund to Krinneor,”
Jarek breathed reverently. “Right. And do you know what's ahead?” Darll opened his eyes. “Nothing. The
end of the world.” Graym downed an entire bowl of Skull-Splitter, wiped his lips on his sleeve, and smiled genially. “Maybe it is, sir, but I say” - he waved the
empty dipper for emphasis - “if I'm going to see the end of the world, I should see it
with a positive attitude.” He gazed up at the sky. “I mean, look at the world now. No
gods, no heroes.” He sighed loudly and happily. “It makes a man feel fresh.”

“We were heroes this afternoon,” Jarek objected, “me and Darll. We whipped those bastards.”

“Now, now,” Graym said admonishingly. “You hardly knew them, Jarek. Don't speak ill of
people just because they tried to kill you.”

Darll agreed. “Other than being the usual low, sorry sort of lowlifes you find in these
parts, they weren't bad at all. They were bounty hunters.” He eyed Graym suspiciously.

“Seems an unfriendly way to make a living,” Graym said. He scratched his head, belched,
and settled back. “Inventory,” he announced.

The others suddenly looked nervous. “Will we have to sign for things?” Jarek asked. “I
hate that.”

Graym shook his head. “Nah, nah. This is just counting, and remembering” - he took another
sip of ale - “and history. We started with nine barrels. Remember the loading? We pushed
them on from all sides, and they shifted when we started rolling.”

Fenris nudged his brother. “And one rolled away and smashed on Dog Street.”

Fanris kicked him. “I couldn't hold it. It was hard to see, it being dark and all.”

Darll's eyes opened. “You loaded in the dark? For the love of Paladine, why?”

Jarek said reasonably, “We didn't want to be seen.”

Darll laughed, a short bark. “No wonder the horses ran off. They didn't even know you, did
they? You stole them! AND the cart, I'll wager.”

“Jem and Renny, poor flighty nags. They never liked us,” Graym said sadly. “Well, that's
one barrel. Eight left.”

“There was the barrel on the bridge,” Jarek offered, “out side of town.”

“We'd picked up Darll, and he was putting up a fight - ”

“That's right, blame me.” Darll glared at them all. “I only wanted to leap off at the
bridge.”

“And hit us,” Fenris said. “And kill us,” Fanris added, hurt. “And hit and kill you,”
Darll agreed. “I did fairly well for being hung over.“ ”You might have drowned, sir,“ Graym said. ”That wouldn't do when you're in our charge, would it?“ ”He hit me,“ Jarek said, rubbing his
head. ”And me,“ Fen said. ”And me,” Fan added.

Darll settled back. “Stop whining. I didn't kill you.” His scowl, fierce under his
salt-and-pepper beard, seemed to add an unspoken “yet.”

After a short silence, Graym continued. “One of the barrels dropped into Mirk River,
leaving seven. After that, we didn't lose a one - not in the Black Rain, not in the Dry
Lands, not in the swamps. We can be proud of that.”

Jarek squared his shoulders. The Wolf brothers grinned, exposing teeth best left hidden.

Graym went on. “And today we beat back a better- trained force - ”

“Any force would be better trained,” Darll muttered. “That's harsh, sir. We won through
strategy - ” “Luck.” “Or luck, but not,” Graym said sadly, “without casualties. We smashed two barrels, a major loss.” He stared, brooding, into the fire.

Jarek counted on his fingers twice, then said proudly. “I know! I know! That leaves six
barrels - ”

“Yes. Five full barrels,” Graym said. He walked unsteadily to the wagon. “And one other”
He thumped it three times, pausing to let it echo. “One . . . empty . . . barrel.”

The others ducked their heads, avoided his eyes. “It leaked,” Darll said, shrugging.

Graym rocked the barrel back and forth and ran his hands around it. “Bone dry. No water
marks, no foam flecks.”

“Ghosts.” Jarek looked solemn.

Graym snorted. “Ever seen a drunk ghost?”

Since none of them had seen a ghost of any sort, drunk or sober, they all shook their
heads reluctantly.

“Might have been magic,” Fenris said. “True enough,” Fanris said quickly. Graym wiped the
mud off the barrel end to expose a second, cleverly hidden bunghole. He felt in the comer of the wagon and pulled out a
second tap. “And which one of you,” he said firmly, “was the mage?”

He folded his arms. “Now, I know it's been a long, hard, dusty trip. A man gets thirsty.
And you've all known me as long as you've worn dry pants. I'm not a hard man.”

“You're a soft man,” Darll said, but wouldn't look him in the eye.

“I'm a forgiving man.” “Hah! If you were, you'd let me go, but no - ” “It's a matter of
principle, sir,” Graym said firmly. “And the money,” Jarek reminded him. “And the money,
of course.” “Tenpiece,” Darll said bitterly. “Took me straight from the Bailey of Sarem with a promise and a bag of tenpiece.“ ”Plus twenty when we get to
Krinneor,“ Fen said. ”When we hand you up,“ Fan said. ”Thirtypiece.“ Darll shook his head.
”The best fighter in Goodlund, second or third best in Istar, carted off to prison for thirtypiece.”