The Cataclysm (9 page)

Marakion slowly withdrew something from his tunic. Unfolding it, he laid the piece of
lavender cloth out in front of him. It was worn, faded; dark brown spots stained it.

Closing his eyes, Marakion pressed the cloth against his cheek.

“Marissa. . . .”

*****

The following morning dawned cold and unpleasant. It was snowing. As Marakion shouldered
his pack and tied on his cloak, he stared out the window in his room and thought that
today would be the day he found the marauders. Today would be the day he found where the
scum holed up.

Griffort was wiping down the bar, looked up to see him.

“Morning, sir,” he said. “Breakfast for you today? I might be able to scrape together some
eggs, if you've the wealth for 'em.”

“No. I'm leaving.” Griffort nodded. “Which way you headed?” “West.” Griffort's face
darkened, and he motioned Marakion closer. The innkeeper spoke in a low voice, “You want a copper's worth of free advice?”

Marakion nodded for him to continue.

“Don't go west, at least not straight west. Skirt Mount Phineous if you can. Evil things
going on up there.”

Marakion was interested. “How so?”

“Lader's Knoll.” The innkeeper shook his head. “We used to have an arrangement with a
farmer up there in Lader's Knoll. Taters don't grow down here, as well as other stuff
Bartus likes for his cooking, so we'd swap bread and the like for vegetables and such -
but I can see you're not into long stories, so I'll cut it short. One day, the farmer
stopped bringing his wagon down. I sent one of the town boys to Lader's Knoll to see what
had happened. The kid never came back. Something bad's going on up there, stranger - ”
Griffort stopped at the sight of Marakion's smile.

“Perfect,” Marakion said. “Does the name 'Knightsbane Marauders' mean anything to you?
Have you heard of them?”

The disconcerted innkeeper shook his head slowly. “No.”

Marakion stared at him hard, then turned and left the inn. Behind him he heard the
innkeeper's comment to the barmaid: “Must'a got his noggin cracked somewhere. World's full
of crazies nowadays.”

*****

Gylar awoke the next morning in a better mood. He'd slept all the previous day and all
night. His confusion and fear were replaced by purpose. He wanted to know why the gods
killed everyone, why they allowed people like his mother, and like Lutha, to die
needlessly. Well, he would ask them.

The question turned over again and again in his head as he buried his mother next to the
rest of his family. The snow fell lightly on him and the ground at which he worked. It was
almost as though the skies knew Gylar didn't want to look at the village anymore.

When his mother was resting with his little brother and father, Gylar went back inside the
house.

He closed the door on the storm outside, went to his father's room, and pulled down the
pack he'd kept on the wall, the pack Gylar had seen his father use countless times when
they'd gone hunting together. A brief wash of memories splashed over Gylar. He sniffled
and ran a sleeve across his nose.

Turning his thoughts to more immediate tasks, Gylar took the pack into the kitchen. He
collected some food suited to traveling, a good kitchen knife, a spoon, and a small pot.
Gylar looked about for anything else he might need. A bedroll, he thought. He went to his
room, stripped the woolen blanket off the bed, and rolled it up, tied it onto his father's
already laden pack.

He put on a thick cloak and pulled the pack to the door. The snowfall had sheathed the
ground in white. Mount Phineous was hidden in the distance, but its presence still loomed
in Gylar's mind. What better place to contact the gods than from the top of their latest
creation?

He adjusted his cloak more snugly, threw the heavy pack over his shoulder. It unsteadied
him for a moment, but he regained his balance and thrust an arm through the remaining strap, securing the burden. He turned and looked one last time at what once had
been his home. Gylar said nothing, bowed his head, and began walking toward the great
mountain.

*****

Marakion watched as the young boy, bundled to the teeth, left Lader's Knoll.

“Off on a journey, are we?” he said quietly from the shadow of a wall. “And just where are
you going, little looter?”

Marakion had been in the small village for about half an hour, and he hadn't seen a living
being. His disappointment was acute. He'd assumed that Lader's Knoll was the marauders'
camp. It was perfect, a desolate place; all those within traveling distance were scared to
visit.

But instead of seedy shacks full of murderers and cutthroats, he'd found fresh graves or,
sometimes, a few bodies, sleeping the slumber of the dead. The gaunt faces were a faint
purple, and dried blood covered their lips.

Another false trail. His frustration was painful almost beyond bearing. He wandered the
town in search of some sign, any sign that this had been the hideout of the marauders, but
it appeared that the only curse to take up residence in this town was a plague.

“There's your evil, Griffort,” he'd muttered.

He'd been about to start off from the devastated village when he'd seen a door to one of
the houses open. He slid from view behind one of the nearby buildings.

With a quick-beating heart and silenced breathing, Marakion watched the boy leave the
village. “Well, well. Looting the dead, eh? Where are your cohorts, Marauder? Or did they
just send you to scout the area?”

Marakion exulted in his discovery. The boy was headed toward Mount Phineous! Marakion
berated himself for not thinking of it before. What better place for a band of brigands
than a Cataclysm-spawned, uninhabited mountain?

Marakion detached himself from the shadow of the house and followed. He was not about to
reveal himself to his guide, at least not until the sanctuary was found.

“I'm coming, Marissa,” he whispered as he fell into a loping stride behind his prey.

*****

Occasionally during the trek up the mountain, the boy turned to look at the sky, or at how
far he'd separated himself from the village. The ever alert Marakion moved skillfully into
a nearby copse of trees, ducked behind an outcropping of rock or shrubbery. It wasn't
difficult for Marakion to remain hidden from the youngster's view. The cloud cover made
the terrain gloomy, and the falling snow decreased visibility dramatically.

It was afternoon when the boy first stopped. After extracting a few things from his pack,
he dumped it on the ground, sat on it, and began eating.

Marakion watched from just over a small hillock, built up by a tremendous snowdrift, then
settled down to a meal of his own, consisting of some strips of dried rabbit.

The snow stopped falling sometime before noon, and the afternoon opened up clear and
bright, making Marakion's stalking much more difficult, but not impossible. He smiled. It
wouldn't be long now.

While tearing at the rough meat with his teeth, Marakion studied the youngling with
interest. The boy was not very large; Marakion guessed him at about eleven or twelve years
old. He looked innocent enough, sitting there, chomping on his lunch, not much like a
sneak-thief. But, no, he was one of them - a messenger, maybe, or a pickpocket. He had to
be.

Marakion's teeth fought the dried meat for another bite. He gauged the size of the
mountain. It was not the biggest he'd seen, but impressive in its own right.

Marakion turned his attention back to the boy. He wasn't going anywhere for the moment.
Obviously he'd settled down for a long rest. Marakion set his excellent hearing to guard
and hunkered down comfortably.

Relaxing, he slipped into a light drowse, waiting for the boy to make the next move. He
was startled back to wake- fulness. His ears caught a crunching sound from up the
mountain. Rolling to his feet, he peered over the drift.

The boy had heard the sound, too. He scrambled upright. The bramble-breaking noise grew
louder. Marakion tensed his body, relaxed his mind, letting it disappear, allowing the
energy to flow. This was it. This must be some rendezvous point. The entire band, maybe! He was ready. But the boy did not run into the
trees to welcome a gang of murderers. He did not call a greeting to comrades. Instead, he let out a fearful yell
and, stumbling over himself, began running down the hill. Marakion stared curiously into
the trees to see what was following.

A huge ogre burst from the foliage. Sallow and crusty- skinned, the ogre charged forward
with long, quick strides. Wet brambles and a few straggling pine needles showered off the
creature as it ran, sending snow flying in a blinding flurry.

Marakion cursed as he watched the ogre closing on the boy. The damned ogre was ruining
everything! Scaring off Marakion's guide, the ogre might kill the boy before Marakion
could question him!

*****

Gylar's heart beat against his rib cage like a woodpecker. The snow impeded every step of
his short legs, while the ogre's strides cleared the terrain as though it were midsummer
ground. It was just a matter of time. Gylar gulped for air as he struggled onward. His
mind had gone numb, and all he could think of was escape. He'd heard stories about what
ogres did to children. . . .

Just at the height of his despair, when the ogre loomed over him, casting a nightlike
shadow that engulfed Gylar, the strap of his pack slipped off his shoulder.

If Gylar had been thinking straight, he'd have abandoned his pack and kept going, but he
reflexively hung onto it as it scraped the snow. Too late, he realized his error. The
momentum of his flight sent him sprawling, then tumbling down the hill. He careened into a
snowbank in a fluff of white.

The massive arm of the ogre plunged into the snow, groped around, then plucked out a
struggling Gylar. The ogre's craggy mouth split like a crack in a tree's bark, revealing a
fairly complete row of sharp teeth as dingy yellow as the ogre's mottled skin.

***** Twenty feet away, Marakion leaned against a tree listening. A shimmer ran the length of Glint. The ogre chuckled at the boy as it began to
walk home.

“Glad came,” the ogre said, with a thick, grating accent. “Hungry, me. We eat, I and you.”
The ogre chuckled again, sounded like someone scraping rough rocks together. “Take home
you to me. Dinner, we have - ”

“Not today.” Marakion said clearly in the frosty air as the two walked past the tree he
stood behind. The ogre took one look at Marakion and dropped the boy into the snow with a
snarl.

But Marakion was on the ogre before it could even raise its arms in defense. Marakion
kicked out, struck the ogre in the knee, swung the Hat end of Glint into the side of the
ogre's head.

The creature went down in a tumble of arms and snow. Marakion stood ready as the ogre
surged onto its feet. It was calm, imposing.

“Leave, friend. The boy is under my protection. If you have any wits at all, you'll seek
food elsewhere. Surely catching a deer could not be as much trouble as this little one
will cost you.”

The ogre growled, flexing its muscles under its rough yellow skin, but it did not take a
step forward. It was accustomed to fearful enemies, not one facing it with confidence. The
ogre showed its teeth viciously. “Hungry. Food mine. You leave.”

“Not on your life.” Marakion smiled, his stance immobile. It felt good to fight, for
whatever reason. The despair, the frustration, the hopelessness - all disappeared when
Marakion went into combat. “You leave, or we fight. If you insist, I must say I'm really
in the mood for the battle. Is it worth it?”

The ogre stood swaying back and forth, wondering, perhaps, what it was that made this
human brave enough to challenge it. It showed its teeth again. “Hungry!” it growled,
clenching and unclenching its clawed fists anxiously.

Marakion's eyes narrowed. “Times are hard for all of us, friend. Everyone's got - ”

Marakion didn't have time to finish his sentence. The ogre - a madness in its eyes, daws
extended - charged the knight.

Having thought he was actually having some effect with his words, Marakion was surprised by the sudden onslaught. Quick reflexes moved him
to the side of the hulking swing that cracked a tree trunk behind him.

Marakion slid under the ogre's arm and dodged behind the yellow giant. His sword flashed
out, slashing once, twice on the ogre's back. Blood welled from cuts, a muted crack
sounded. Broken bone, Marakion realized. The ogre roared in pain, struck out with its huge
fist. Yellow-fleshed arm bone and steel whacked together harshly, and the ogre howled
again.

Another huge yellow hand came down. Marakion didn't have enough leverage to sidestep. The
jagged claws raked his left side. He grabbed hold of the forearm and slammed Glint's
pommel into the ogre's left eye. A follow-up strike cracked into the side of the
bark-skinned head. The ogre reeled backward, stunned. Marakion hit it again and again.

Snow exploded outward as the huge body fell heavily to the ground. Jumping forward,
Marakion hovered over the ogre like a dark angel, clenching Glint tightly in his fist. His
breathing was hard and quick. He stared down at the ogre, waiting for it to rise again,
waiting for it to attack.

The ogre didn't rise, though the eyes fluttered open. Marakion raised his finely honed
arm, preparing to end the creature's life, then he paused. The rough yellow hide was
pulled tight over the protrusion of the creature's ribs; the bloody, bruised face was
gaunt. The ogre's muscles were thin, hunger-wasted.

Marakion lowered Glint. The ogre struggled sluggishly to get up, only to fail and plunge
back into the snow. It raised its arms a bit in a feeble attempt to ward off another blow
- one that never descended.

This wasn't a monster, Marakion thought, just another creature devastated by the
Cataclysm, whose life had been turned upside down, ruined, like his own. The ogre was just
trying to survive. Marakion wondered what lengths he would go to if he were starving.
Definitely he wouldn't be above eating ogre flesh.