Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

The cart tipped, toppling the heavy barrels. The horses broke their harnesses and charged through the fight. A cascade of barrels thundered into the midst of the fray. One attacker lay still, moaning.

That left four. Darll kicked one still-rolling barrel, sent it smashing into two of the attackers, then leapt at a third, who was groping for his dropped sword. Darll kicked the sword away, lifted one of the barrel hoops over the man’s head. The attacker raised his arms to defend himself, neatly catching them in the hoop. Darll slammed him in the face with his fist.

Jarek yelled, “Yaaa!” and threw a rock at the leader. The rock struck the man, knocked him into Darll’s reach.

Darll whipped his chain around the man’s throat, throttling him. Hearing a noise behind him, Darll let the man drop and spun around.

Two of the others were crawling to their knees. Darll kicked one and faced the other, prepared to fight.

A hoarse voice cried, “No!”

The leader was gasping and massaging his throat. “Leave them. Let Skorm Bonelover get them,” he told his men.

The attackers limped away, carrying their two unconscious comrades.

It was suddenly very quiet. The Wolf brothers, still under the cart, were staring at Darll in awe. Jarek—a second rock cradled in his hand—was gazing at the fighter with open-mouthed admiration. Graym took a step toward Darll, glanced at the fleeing attackers, and stepped away again.

“Six men,” Graym said. “Six trained men-at-arms, beaten by a man in chains.”

“It’ll make one helluva song,” Darll said acidly. “I suppose I’m still your prisoner?”

After a moment’s thought, Graym nodded. “Right, then. Let’s reload the barrels.”

Graym and Jarek tipped the cart back upright and propped a barrel behind the rear wheel. The first barrel was easy to load. Too easy. Graym handled it by himself. He stared at it in surprise, then worked to load the second.

The third barrel was on, then suddenly and inexplicably it was rolling off.

The Wolf brothers, working on top, grabbed frantically and missed. The barrel slid down the tilted cart. Darll fell back. Jarek, standing in the barrel’s path, stared up at it with his mouth open.

For a fat middle-aged man, Graym could move quickly. He slammed into Jarek, and both went sprawling. The barrel crashed onto a rock and bounced off, spraying foam sideways before it came to rest, punctured end up.

Graym, unfortunately, came to rest on top of Jarek.

Darll, manacles clanging, pulled Graym to his feet. “You all right?”

“Fine, sir, fine.” Graym felt his ribs and arms for breakage.

“Pity,” Darll grunted. “What about you, boy?” He bent down and helped Jarek up. “If you only hurt your head, we’re in luck.”

Jarek wheezed and gasped.

“He’ll be fine,” Graym said, slapping Jarek’s shoulder. Jarek collapsed again, and Graym helped him up again. “Probably do us both good. Exercise new muscles.”

“Try thinking. That should exercise a new muscle for you.” Darll looked down at their feet. Foam was seeping quickly into the ground. The smell of ale was overpowering.

Graym followed his glance. “Only another loss,” he said cheerfully. “Crisis of transport, sir. Part of business.” He and Jarek limped over to the broken barrel.

Jarek, still wheezing, managed to say, “I’m sorry, Graym. You said ‘Stop pushing when I say now,’ and that was when you said ‘now,’ so then I thought you meant ‘now.’ ”

“Don’t you feel bad at all, boy.” Graym looked at the damp rock and the damp soil below it. “This’ll drive the price up when we reach Krinneor. Supply and demand.”

He added, struck by it, “Makes the other kegs worth more.”

He finished, convinced, “Best thing that could happen, really.”

Graym shook Jarek’s limp hand. “Thank you for upping profits. A bold move—not one I’d have made—but worth it in the long run.”

Jarek smiled proudly. Darll snorted.

The Wolf brothers looked down from the perch on top of the cart. “Want us to roll another off?” Fenris asked eagerly.

“Say when,” Fanris added.

Graym shook his head. “Let’s take inventory first.”

The Wolf brothers slid cautiously off the wagon. They looked (and claimed) to be several years older than Jarek, but no one would ever know their real age until one of them washed, which was hardly likely. From their narrow beetle-browed eyes to their black boots, they looked wickedly dangerous.

A songbird whistled, and the two jumped and crouched low behind the wagon wheel.

“Don’t crawl underneath,” Graym pleaded. “That’s how you tipped it the last time. It’s all right now. The bad men are gone. And they weren’t that bad, once we got their weapons away from them.”

“We? We ?” Darll demanded.

“I helped,” Jarek said proudly. “I threw a rock at one. You did most of it,” he added honestly. “But you should have. You’re supposed to be a great mercenary.”

“I’m supposed to be your prisoner” Darll said bitingly.

Graym put a hand on Darll’s shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard, sir. You’re the Bailey of Sarem’s prisoner. We’re just transporting you to Krinneor.” He patted Darll. “Think of us as company.”

“I think of you,” Darll said bitterly, “the way I’d think of the underside of an owlbear’s—”

“I’m going to be a mercenary like you someday,” Jarek broke in.

Fenris came out from behind the wagon wheel. He looked worried. “Did you hear what that man said just before running off?”

“You mean the part about ‘Let Skorm Bonelover take them’?” Fanris finished nervously. “I heard it. What does it mean? Who’s Skorm Bonelover?”

Graym was checking the fallen barrel. “An idle threat. Poor man, I don’t think he was happy.” He examined the sprung staves.

“You may be a cooper,” Darll said, “but you can’t mend that.”

Graym felt along the keg sides, skilled hands finding the sprung barrel stave. “Not on the road,” he said reluctantly. “And it’s over half full still.”

The Wolf brothers edged forward hopefully. “Be a shame to let it go to waste, Fan.”

“Right again, Fen.”

Jarek, rubbing his head, looked meaningfully at the bung-puller stored inside the cart.

“Half a keg of Skull-Splitter Premium. Well …” Graym sighed loudly, then smiled. “Not a bad place to camp.”

They waited until nightfall to light the fire, so no one would see the smoke. They hung a shield of blankets around the fire to hide the light. Both were Darll’s idea. Graym saw no need for such precautions, but was willing to humor him.

The sunset was blood red, like every one had been since the Cataclysm.

Graym sipped at the bowl of Skull-Splitter and said, to no one in particular, “Life is attitude—good or bad.” He waved an arm at the desolate landscape. “What do you see?”

Darll grunted. “What else? Disaster. Broken trees, clogged streams, fallen buildings, and a gods-forsaken broken road rougher than a troll’s—”

“That’s your problem, sir.” Graym thumped Darll’s back. “You see disaster. I see opportunity. Look here.” He traced a map in the dirt. “See this road?”

He looked up and realized that Darll—ale rolling in his mouth, eyes shut to savor the flavor—wasn’t seeing anything. “Excuse me, sir, but do you see the road?”

“The road from Goodlund to Krinneor,” Jarek breathed reverently.

“Right. And do you know what’s ahead?”

Darll opened his eyes. “Nothing. The end of the world.”

Graym downed an entire bowl of Skull-Splitter, wiped his lips on his sleeve, and smiled genially. “Maybe it is, sir, but I say”—he waved the empty dipper for emphasis—“if I’m going to see the end of the world, I should see it with a positive attitude.” He gazed up at the sky. “I mean, look at the world now. No gods, no heroes.” He sighed loudly and happily. “It makes a man feel fresh.”