The Cataclysm (10 page)

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.

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.

“T AGOR!”

*****

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.”

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?“ ”Y es.”

“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.