Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

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.

Marakion noticed the young boy watching his deliberation.

“Go on,” the man said harshly to the ogre. “I gave you one chance. This is your second. You won’t get a third.”

The emaciated ogre finally made it to its feet. Its unswollen eye gave one final, hungry look at Gylar, then it turned and limped slowly into the woods from which it had come, blood drops dotting its tracks.

Marakion’s brow furrowed. Sheathing Glint, he turned to face the boy.

“What’s your name?” Marakion asked harshly.

The boy looked dazed, still recovering from shock and fright. “Uh, Gylar, sir. I … Thanks,” he tacked on lamely.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone. Ogres might not be the worst you’ll find. I hear there’s a dangerous band of brigands in these hills.”

Marakion watched for some reaction. Gylar’s face gave no telltale signs of anything but relief.

“I–I’m on a quest, and … Who are you?” Gylar couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer. “What are you doing up on the mountain here? My village is the only one for miles.”

Marakion noted the honest innocence in the boy’s face, and he cursed again, silently.

“I do a bit of traveling. Just passing through, really.” He paused and looked at Gylar closely once more. He began to doubt again. The boy might be a cunning liar.

“Tell you what, kid. Looks like we both need to rest a little.” He touched his raked side gingerly. “What do you say to putting your quest on hold and setting up camp? I saw a cave, over there a ways … When we get a good fire going, you can tell me all about it.”

Gylar smiled and nodded.

“I went with Lutha. I knew she wasn’t supposed to go in there. Mom had told me about the evil in the new marsh, and Lutha’s parents had told the same thing to her. But Lutha wasn’t afraid. You see, there was something we’d put in an old tree before the marsh came, before the Cataclysm and Mount Phineous. A couple of necklaces we made out of leather and wooden disks.” Gylar’s mouth became a straight line, and his brow furrowed.

The warm fire popped and crackled, illuminating Marakion’s intent face and the makeshift bandages that he was wrapping slowly around his middle.

Gylar sighed and continued, “She was always doing stuff like that. Anyway, the marsh wasn’t really scary, just wet and mucky. The only thing that happened was that Lutha fell down in the water once.

“But Mom was real mad when I got back. She knew where we’d been. I guess the smell of the marsh and my wet boots gave us away. Anyway, I snuck out of the house later, when Mom was down at the stream washing and Dad was chopping wood. I went to see Lutha.

“I didn’t knock at the door, because her parents were probably just as mad at her as mine were at me. Instead, I went around back and looked in the bedroom window. Lutha was in there and she was shivering real bad. And her face was real red. That was the first time I saw the sickness on somebody. Lutha was the first …”

Gylar tossed a twig into the fire. “I didn’t see Lutha again.” He wiped his nose. “The day after that, it was the talk of the village. Lutha had died of a strange sickness. Then her parents died. No one knew how to stop the sickness. Everybody went into their houses and didn’t come out, but it didn’t matter. I’m not sure who died after that, because Dad closed us up in our house, too. When Rahf died, my little brother, Mom said it didn’t matter anymore that we stayed in the house.”

Gylar sighed again. “It was awful. Hardly anyone was alive in the village when we came out. We went from door to door, looking for people. Everyone was in their beds, shaking with the fever or already dead. I wanted to leave. Since we hadn’t caught it yet, I told Mom we should run away from it. She shook her head and didn’t answer me. We helped those who had it. We took care of them, but it didn’t matter, just like staying in the house didn’t matter anymore. They were going to die, but Mom said we could help them. I know now she didn’t mean help them live, but help them to die better. I guess …

“Then Dad died.” Gylar’s voice was subdued. He shook his head; his cheeks were wet. “He went just like everyone else, shivering but so hot. I didn’t want …”

His eyes focused again on Marakion. “He was one of the last ones to go, then it was my mother. When she died, I felt so alone, so alone and numb. I could touch something, like the blanket, or—or her hand, and I wouldn’t really feel it. I had to go. I had to get out.”

Gylar looked intently at Marakion. “Why did the gods do it, sir? I just don’t understand. Why did they have to kill so many people? It doesn’t make sense. We didn’t do anything! We just lived. We worshiped Paladine. But Krynn was still cracked, and then the new marsh rose and Lutha caught the sickness and now everyone … everyone I ever knew is dead.” He bowed his head.