Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

“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 powerful 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 left-hand 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.