Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

Then his mouth set defiantly and his brows came together in anger. “And so I’m going to ask them. I want them to answer just one question. Why? Why did they do it to everyone? What did we do wrong?”

Marakion smiled. “Supposing the gods even respond, they might drop another mountain on you.”

“I don’t care,” Gylar said petulantly, gathering his blanket around him and resting his head on his pack. “I don’t care if they do. If they do, they don’t care about us and it won’t matter. But … but I will ask.” He yawned. “I will ask him … Paladine.”

Gylar fell asleep. Marakion gazed at the young face. The flame’s light played off the round, boyish features that would not fade for several years yet. Marakion sighed aloud this time. Watching the boy tell his story, the knight had realized Gylar was indeed no marauder’s lackey. He actually was what he claimed: a simple country boy in search of divine answers.

Gylar’s story made Marakion think of all the things he’d lost because of the Cataclysm. If the gods had not dropped the fiery mountain, his home would not have been attacked.

“You’re right, Gylar,” he said to the sleeping boy. “Paladine should be confronted, asked …” Marakion’s iron doors creaked open. “So much like Tagor,” he said to himself. “A victim, like Tagor. I wonder what will happen to you?”

Flames and smoke danced in the fire inside his head. Very much like Tagor. What will happen to you?

Screams. Clanging steel. The sounds of battle. The cry of his younger brother.

“I’m coming, Tagor!” Marakion shouted from Marissa’s destroyed bedroom.

The yell had sounded from down the hall. Marakion propelled himself toward it. The library! Tagor was trapped in the library.

Marakion slammed through the door with the force of a battering ram. he knocked one of the Invaders to the floor. his sword took out another.

Five more waited. Tagor stood on top of a table In the comer, fighting off the men who were harassing him. The teasing grins they wore turned to scowls when Marakion entered.

“The knight! Keep him there!” A thick-bearded man yelled. “I’ll finish this young one off.”

Marakion shoved his fallen foe away and slammed into the next, trying desperately to come to the aid of his younger brother, but his new opponent was a skilled swordsman, not a brawler.

Marakion slashed insanely at the man’s guard,trying at the same time to see Tagor.

Perched on the studying table, wielding their father’s sword, Tagor delivered a wicked slash to the bearded man, opening up his forehead. He was holding his own momentarily, but that wouldn’t last long. Although Tagor was a fine swordsman for fifteen, he was no match for the brigands’ strength, or their numbers.

Marakion let out a roar. “Bastards! Leave him alone! fight me!”

Tagor twisted sideways, screamed. A sword slashed through his leg. He stumbled to the edge of the table and lost his footing, crashed to the floor below.

Marakion bashed through the swordsman’s guard, sent the man’s hand spinning from his wrist in a trail of blood.

Marakion ran forward. There were three left.

Two charged him and kept him from his brother.

The third … the third was clubbing … clubbing a body on the floor.

“Tagor!”

Marakion started, beat the vision down into the recesses of his memory. Breathing hard, he closed his eyes. Think of now, only of now. Forget Tagor. Forget all of it.

He sat still for long moments, trying to forget, holding his breath with gritted teeth, but the pent up air hissed out slowly in a shudder. Marakion crumpled and sobbed. “Tagor …”

Marakion beat his way through those three marauders, killed them all. He knelt at Tagor’s side.

“They came … from the north … they took Marissa. they called themselves the Knightsbane, Marakion … the knights—Knightsbane. why, Marakion? …why?”

It was his last word, then he died.

Marakion’s cheeks were wet with tears. He turned and gazed down at another brave youth.

Yes, why?

“I hope you get your answer, kid. I really do. There’s quite a few questions I’d like to ask Paladine myself.” Marakion turned his face heavenward and focused on the constellation of the platinum dragon, high above. “At least a few.”

Marakion came out of a reverie that had slipped into a doze. The fire was dwindling. Blinking his eyes, he picked up a couple of sticks and tossed them on, poking at the embers to stir the flames up again. After he’d tended the fire and stoked it for the night, he turned to adjust his bedding for sleep when he heard Gylar give a low moan. Marakion hurried to the young boy’s side.

Gylar shuddered a little, his eyes moving under shut lids, as he huddled deeper into his blanket. He shivered again, turned over, pulled the covers closer about him. Marakion pulled his cloak off and draped it over the boy.

Beneath the double cover, Gylar still quaked. Marakion moved his hand to the boy’s forehead.

It was as hot as fire to the touch.

Marakion closed his eyes. “What will happen to you?” He repeated his thought of earlier in the evening. “Yeah, that’s what, same as everyone else. It doesn’t matter what you’ve already suffered. It’s not enough yet, is it? It’s never enough.”

Marakion lay awake, staring silently at the cave’s ceiling, for a long, long time. He could not sleep with the anger that burned through him as hotly as the fever now burned through Gylar’s body. The brutal injustice galled him.

“I’m going to take you to the top, kid. It’s not going to end like this, not without a fight. No, not without an answer. By my dead brother, I swear you’ll get to ask your question.”

He turned over and tried to go to sleep, but it wasn’t until morning that exhaustion closed those eyes that were very tired of looking at the world.

The morning broke, warm and sunny. A few clouds drifted through the sky, but gave no threat of any type of storm. Snow gathered on tree limbs, slipped heavily from leaves, as the warmth of the day melted it. Pine needles shrugged off sheets of snow and rustled as they adjusted to their newfound freedom from winter’s blanket.

Marakion stood at the cave’s entrance. Nature was adapting to the freak warmth of the winter’s day. The snow on the ground was glazed with a sheen of wet sparkles. Everything was adapting—everything except Gylar.

The sickness moved fast once the fever started. Gylar had slept late into the morning without knowing it, and Marakion had not come to a decision about waking him yet. As he stood there, though, he could hear the boy coming to.

He scuffed a groove into the wet snow. Casting a scathing glance heavenward, he turned and made his way back into the small cave.

Marakion stopped a half-dozen paces from the boy. Gylar knew what was happening to him. Maybe he’d realized it in the middle of the night—the fear was on his face—but the fear was held at bay by determination.

Gylar looked up. The boy tried to manage a smile, but failed. Tears stood in his eyes. Marakion wanted to say something, some word of comfort, but he knew if he tried to talk, it would come out choked.

“I have it, Marakion.”

I know, Marakion spoke in a voice with no sound. Clearing his throat, he said again, “I know.”

“I’m going to die.” The boy’s eyes were wide. They blinked once, twice.

Marakion nodded and lowered his gaze, his boots again scuffing a trench in the dirt floor. “Yeah,” he said.

A different kind of fear entered Gylar’s voice. “Marakion, you have to leave me, now. You have to go.” His teeth chattered. Closing his mouth, he tried again. “You might have it already, but … but maybe not. You have to go.”