Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

Marakion knelt beside Gylar. The man smiled. “You want to try to make me, kid?”

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.”

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 would 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.