His fatigue overcame his sadness and revulsion, at least for the moment. Slowly, he made his way back to the house, back to the dead house. Stopping in the doorway, Gylar turned around to look at the land that was growing cold with winter. It was likely going to snow today.
He turned and slammed the door shut behind him. It didn't matter. Nothing much mattered anymore. His limbs dragged at him heavily. Sleep, he thought, that's all. Sleep, then, when I wake up — if I wake up — I'll figure out what to do.
So, for the first time in three days, Gylar slept.
Eyes focused on his prey, Marakion stilled his breathing, though a haze of white drifted slowly from his mouth. The scruffy man before him leaned heavily against the tree, huffing frosty air as he tried to recover from the run. Although exhausted, the man never once turned his fearful eyes from Marakion.
"A merry chase, my friend," Marakion said in a voice that was anything but merry. "Tell me what I wish to know. This will end."
The man stared in disbelief. Marakion was barely winded. The man gulped another breath and answered frantically, "I told you! I never heard of no 'Knight-killer Marauders!'"
Marakion hovered over the thief, his eyes black and impenetrable, his lip twitching, barely holding his rage in check. The bare blade of his sword glimmered dully. "Knightsbane Marauders," he rumbled in a low voice. The scruffy man quivered under the smoldering anger. "You are a brigand, just like them. You must know of them. Tell me where they are."
"I told you!" The thief cringed against the tree. "I don't know!"
In brutal silence, Marakion let loose his pent up rage. One instant his sword, Glint, was at his side, and the next, the flat of it smashed into the man's neck. The thief was so surprised by the attack that he barely had time to blink. The strike sent him reeling. Two more clubbing strokes dropped him to the frosty earth, unconscious.
"Then you live," Marakion said, breathing a bit harder. Leaning down, he searched the body thoroughly for the insignia that gave his life burning purpose.
There was none to be found.
Furiously disappointed, he left the useless thug where he lay and headed for the road.
The town that had been his destination before the small band of ruffians had attacked him lay ahead. He had searched all of the towns and outlying areas east of here, only to come up empty-handed, forever empty-handed. But this desolate area showed promise. Marakion was sure the marauders were here. They had to be. During the last few days, he'd come across numerous wretches like the one he'd just felled. None of them belonged to the Knightsbane, but their presence might be a sign that he was getting close to their hideout.
It wasn't long before sparse trees gave way to a huge, rolling meadow. On its edge stood a squat, dirty little town. Marakion didn't even look twice at the ramshackle buildings, the muddy, unkempt road, the muck-choked stream. The sight of people living in such squalor was not unusual to him, not unusual at all. In fact, this place was better than some he'd seen.
The few people he saw as he followed the road to town gave him quick, furtive glances from beneath ragged, threadbare cowls. Marakion ignored them, made his way to the first tavern he could spot.
He didn't even read the name as he entered. It didn't matter to him where he was, and the names only depressed him — new names, cynically indicative of the time, such as "The Cataclysm's Hope," or old names, which the owners hadn't bothered to change. Those were even worse, sporting a cheerful concept of a world gone forever, their signs dangling crookedly from broken chains or loose nails.
Marakion opened the door; it sagged on its hinges once freed of the doorjamb. He pushed it shut, blocking out the inner voice that continued to remind him how worthless life was if everything was like this.
Marakion turned and surveyed the room, walked forward to the bar that lined the far wall.
The innkeeper had smiled as Marakion had entered, but now blanched nervously at sight of the hunter's stony face, the dark, deliberate gaze.
"Uh, what can I do for you, stranger?"
"What do you have to eat this day, innkeep?"
"Fairly thick stew tonight. Mutton, if you've the wealth."
"Bread?"
"Sure, stranger, fairly fresh, if you've the wealth."
Marakion did not return the man's feeble attempts to be friendly. "A chunk of fresh bread and the stew." He tossed a few coins on the bar. "I'll be at that table over there."
The innkeeper scooped the coins off the counter in one movement. "I'm Griffort. You need anything, I'm the man to talk to. I don't suppose you'll be staying for the night. Got a couple of rooms open — "
"One room," Marakion interrupted, "for the night." He left a stark pause in the air and waited.
"Uh, um, another of those coins'll do it," the unnerved innkeeper stuttered.
Marakion paid the man and made his way to the table he'd indicated. As he sat down, he touched his money pouch. Not much left. A filthy inn, rotten food, a room likely crawling with rats, and costing him as much as a night in Palanthas — that was the type of world he was living in now.
The type of world he lived in now… Marakion put his fingers to his face and massaged his eyes gently. He couldn't make the memories go away. Even if he blocked the images, the essence of them still came to him. He couldn't seem to shut that out. It infected his every thought, his every action.
He relaxed, and his muscles began to unknot from the day's exercise. He could feel the pull of exhaustion on him. His fingers continued to massage closed eyelids, and the inn slowly drifted from his attention.
Where is she, Marakion? A familiar voice asked the question again inside his head.
"I don't know. Nearby somewhere. I don't know," he muttered.
That's not good enough, Marakion. Where is she? Where?
"I'm looking, trying to find her!"
Not good enough, Marakion. There can be no excuses. They'll kill her, you know. Every day you fail to find them is another day they could kill her, or use her.
"I know. I'll find them. If I have to rip apart this entire continent. I will."
You'd better.
The accusing voice drifted away, to be replaced by the vision that haunted his nights when he slept and his waking hours whenever he lost the concentration that kept it at bay.
Fire. fire and smoke. the flames licked
the top of the tower windows. The smoke
spiraled up from every part of the castle,
blackening the sky. despair wrenched at
Marakion's heart. he had returned home in
time to see it fall to the hands of a
pillaging group of brigands.
His horse slipped on the cobblestones that
led into the castle. he yanked brutally on
the reins, pulling the galloping animal to a
stop. the horse almost stumbled to its
knees. Marakion leapt from its back and
raced into the castle gardens. They were
trampled, destroyed, burned.
"Marissa!" he shouted above the
crackling flames and tearing, rending
sounds of destruction that came from
within the castle proper. "Tagor! Bess!" He
was across the garden in a heartbeat and
ran through the entryway. The great
double doors lay broken and scattered on
the floor. the huge foyer was destroyed, a
shambles, a mockery of its original
grandeur. One scruffy-bearded ruffian
stood guard at the entrance.
The marauder charged. He had
determination and purpose in his eyes;
Marakion had murder. Rage fueled Marakion's
sword arm, fear for his family
infusing his body with uncanny speed. He
smashed the invader's sword aside and
delivered a vicious return stroke at the head.
The marauder ducked under the
p
owerful attack and slipped a cut at
Marakion's midriff. Marakion parried,
stepped inside the invader's guard, and ran him through.
The invader fell and gasped as his life
seeped away. Marakion put his foot on the
man's chest and kicked violently, freeing his
blade. The dying man's screams ended by the
time Marakion reached the top of the lefthand stairs.
"Marissa!"
Marakion raced to his younger sister's
room, the first room on the second level.
She was not there, but, as with the foyer,
her room was cast into disarray — books
thrown on the floor, the bed a smoldering
pile of burned sheets, straw, and wood. Next
to the burning mass lay a piece of cloth. He
recognized it, grabbed it: a scrap of her
dress, the lavender dress she always wore
for his homecoming. A spattering of blood
tainted the remnant.
"Marissa!" He yelled in impotent rage. His
sixteen-year-old sister, his best friend, so
bright, so alive… Marakion uttered a
strangled cry, clutched the cloth in his fist…
"Sir?"
Sir…?
"Sir, are you asleep?"
Marakion started awake as the hand touched him. He was disoriented, thought he was still there, still back at his burned and devastated home. His hand reacted to the touch with the quickness of a snake. Snatching the thin wrist, he held it tightly. There was a gasp of pain. Marakion stared hard, trying to focus his eyes.
Marissa?
The eyes of the woman were wide, and she was frozen where she stood.
Marakion's harsh stare did not relent, but his grip lost some of its steel. No, not Marissa, a barmaid, just a barmaid.
"What?" he asked shortly, releasing the woman's wrist. Her hair was a dirty red, and as unkempt as the plain, rumpled brown dress she wore.
She appraised him coolly with shrewish eyes. "Griffort wants to know if you want pepper in your stew."
"Fine," Marakion said, "that's fine."
"I'll tell him," she said curtly, and left.
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 wakefulness. 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.
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