Gylar was puzzled. "No…" His brows furrowed in confusion. "Make you? No, but, Marakion, if you don't leave — "
"I'm staying."
"But, sir, I told you what happened to — "
Marakion shrugged. "Do you want to make it to the top of this mountain?"
"Yes."
"Then I'm staying."
Gylar started to protest, but Marakion cut him off with a motion of his hand. "You've got heart, I'll give you that, but you aren't going to make the summit without me." He smiled expansively. "Even if you try."
Gylar nodded, wanned by the smile. Marakion suddenly reached out, held the small boy close.
"I'm afraid, Marakion," Gylar whispered, his shaking hands clinging tenaciously.
"I know" The man patted the small back. "I know."
"But it's all right." Gylar sniffed and let go. Running a sleeve across his nose, he smiled with effort and looked up at Marakion. "I just want to make it to the top, before… well, before…" He gulped. "I just want to make it there, that's all."
"Yeah." Marakion took a deep breath. "You will, I promise." Standing, he extended his hand. "Let's go, kid."
Gylar grabbed it, and they began again.
The cave they'd spent the night in was near a natural groove — almost like a trail — worn in the side of the mountain. Once the groove ended, the terrain became exceedingly precarious. More than once, Gylar slipped, and only Marakion's quick reflexes and strength saved the boy.
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."
NO GODS, NO HEROES
Nick O'Donohoe
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, mismatched, 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 t
he 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 beetlebrowed 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 t
ook 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 bettertrained 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.
The cataclysm t2-2 Page 10
