The cataclysm

SEEKERS

Gylar Radilan, of Lader's Knoll, set his mother's hand back onto her chest, over the rumpled blanket. It was done then. Gylar wasn't sure whether to be relieved or to crumple into the corner and cry. Finally, though, it was done. Stepping back, he fell into the chair he'd put by her bed, the chair he'd sat upon all night while holding her hand.

His head bowed for a moment as he thought about the past few days. The Silent Death had swept through the entire village, killing everyone. It had been impossible to detect its coming. There were no early symptoms. One minute, people were laughing and playing — like Lutha, the girl he had known — and the next, they were in bed, complaining weakly of the icy cold they felt, but burning to the touch. Their skin darkened to a ghastly purple as they coughed up thicker and thicker phlegm, and in a few hours their bodies locked up as with rigor mortis.

Poor Lutha. Gylar swallowed and sniffed back tears. She'd been the first one, the one who had brought about the downfall of the village. Gylar could remember going with her into the new marsh, the marsh that hadn't been there before the world shook. People had told their children repeatedly not to go in. They said it had all sorts of evils in it, but that had never stopped Lutha. She'd never listened to her parents much, and once she got something into her head, there was no balking her. She'd had to know about their tree, his and her tree.

Now she was dead. Now everyone was dead. Everyone, of course, except Gylar. For some reason, he hadn't been affected, or at least not yet. His parents had seemed to be immune as well, until the day they collapsed in their beds, shivering.

Gylar rose and crossed the room. He looked out the window to the new day that was shining its light across the hazy horizon and sifting down over the trees skirting the new marsh. He clenched his teeth as a tear finally fell from his eye. If it hadn't been for the marsh, none of this would have happened! Lutha never would have brought the evil back with her, and everyone would be okay. But, no, the gods had thrown the fiery mountain. They'd cracked the earth, and the warm water had come up from below, and with it whatever had killed the town.

Gylar banged his small hand on the windowsill. Why did they do it? The villagers all had been good people. Paladine had been their patron; Gylar's mother had been meticulously devoted to her god, teaching Gylar to be the same. She had loved Paladine, more than anyone in the village. Even after the Cataclysm, when everyone else turned from the gods in scorn and hatred, Gylar's mother continued her evening prayers with increasing earnestness. What did she, of all people, do to deserve such punishment? What did any of them do to deserve it? Was everyone on Krynn going to die, then? Was that it?

Gylar was young, but he wasn't stupid. He'd heard his parents talking about all the other awful things now happening to people who'd survived the tremors and floods. Didn't the gods care about mortals anymore?

Caught up in a slam of emotions, Gylar turned and ran from the house. He ran to the edge of the new bog and yelled up at the sky in his rage.

"Why? If you hate us so much, why'd you even make us in the first place?"

Gylar collapsed to his knees with a sob. Why? It was the only thing he could really think of to ask. It all hinged on that. Why the Cataclysm? How could humans have been evil enough to deserve this? How could anyone?

For a long moment he just slumped there, as though some unseen chain were dragging at his neck, joining the one already pulling at his heart. Gylar sniffled a little and ran his forearm quickly across his nose.

Stumbling to his feet, he looked at the sky again. Clouds were rolling in to obscure the sun, threatening a storm. Gylar sighed. Although he had nowhere else to go, he didn't want to stay in this place of death. His eyes swept over Mount Phineous. The towering mountain still looked over-poweringly out of place, like a sentinel sent by the gods to watch over the low, hilly country. The top fourth of it was swept by clouds. Another result of the Cataclysm, the mountain seemed a counterpart of the new swamp. Brutal and imposing, powerful, the towering rock was the opposite of the silent, sneaky swamp of death.

His fatigue overcame his sadness and revulsion, at least for the moment. Slowly, he made his way back to the house, back to the dead house. Stopping in the doorway, Gylar turned around to look at the land that was growing cold with winter. It was likely going to snow today.

He turned and slammed the door shut behind him. It didn't matter. Nothing much mattered anymore. His limbs dragged at him heavily. Sleep, he thought, that's all. Sleep, then, when I wake up — if I wake up — I'll figure out what to do.

So, for the first time in three days, Gylar slept.

Eyes focused on his prey, Marakion stilled his breathing, though a haze of white drifted slowly from his mouth. The scruffy man before him leaned heavily against the tree, huffing frosty air as he tried to recover from the run. Although exhausted, the man never once turned his fearful eyes from Marakion.

"A merry chase, my friend," Marakion said in a voice that was anything but merry. "Tell me what I wish to know. This will end."

The man stared in disbelief. Marakion was barely winded. The man gulped another breath and answered frantically, "I told you! I never heard of no 'Knight-killer Marauders!'"

Marakion hovered over the thief, his eyes black and impenetrable, his lip twitching, barely holding his rage in check. The bare blade of his sword glimmered dully. "Knightsbane Marauders," he rumbled in a low voice. The scruffy man quivered under the smoldering anger. "You are a brigand, just like them. You must know of them. Tell me where they are."

"I told you!" The thief cringed against the tree. "I don't know!"

In brutal silence, Marakion let loose his pent up rage. One instant his sword, Glint, was at his side, and the next, the flat of it smashed into the man's neck. The thief was so surprised by the attack that he barely had time to blink. The strike sent him reeling. Two more clubbing strokes dropped him to the frosty earth, unconscious.

"Then you live," Marakion said, breathing a bit harder. Leaning down, he searched the body thoroughly for the insignia that gave his life burning purpose.

There was none to be found.

Furiously disappointed, he left the useless thug where he lay and headed for the road.

The town that had been his destination before the small band of ruffians had attacked him lay ahead. He had searched all of the towns and outlying areas east of here, only to come up empty-handed, forever empty-handed. But this desolate area showed promise. Marakion was sure the marauders were here. They had to be. During the last few days, he'd come across numerous wretches like the one he'd just felled. None of them belonged to the Knightsbane, but their presence might be a sign that he was getting close to their hideout.

It wasn't long before sparse trees gave way to a huge, rolling meadow. On its edge stood a squat, dirty little town. Marakion didn't even look twice at the ramshackle buildings, the muddy, unkempt road, the muck-choked stream. The sight of people living in such squalor was not unusual to him, not unusual at all. In fact, this place was better than some he'd seen.

The few people he saw as he followed the road to town gave him quick, furtive glances from beneath ragged, threadbare cowls. Marakion ignored them, made his way to the first tavern he could spot.

He didn't even read the name as he entered. It didn't matter to him where he was, and the names only depressed him — new names, cynically indicative of the time, such as "The Cataclysm's Hope," or old names, which the owners hadn't bothered to change. Those were even worse, sporting a cheerful concept of a world gone forever, their signs dangling crookedly from broken chains or loose nails.

Marakion opened the door; it sagged on its hinges once freed of the doorjamb. He pushed it shut, blocking out the inner voice that continued to remind him how worthless life was if everything was like this.

Marakion turned and surveyed the room, walked forward to the bar that lined the far wall.

The innkeeper had smiled as Marakion had entered, but now blanched nervously at sight of the hunter's stony face, the dark, deliberate gaze.

"Uh, what can I do for you, stranger?"

"What do you have to eat this day, innkeep?"

"Fairly thick stew tonight. Mutton, if you've the wealth."

"Bread?"

"Sure, stranger, fairly fresh, if you've the wealth."

Marakion did not return the man's feeble attempts to be friendly. "A chunk of fresh bread and the stew." He tossed a few coins on the bar. "I'll be at that table over there."

The innkeeper scooped the coins off the counter in one movement. "I'm Griffort. You need anything, I'm the man to talk to. I don't suppose you'll be staying for the night. Got a couple of rooms open — "

"One room," Marakion interrupted, "for the night." He left a stark pause in the air and waited.

"Uh, um, another of those coins'll do it," the unnerved innkeeper stuttered.

Marakion paid the man and made his way to the table he'd indicated. As he sat down, he touched his money pouch. Not much left. A filthy inn, rotten food, a room likely crawling with rats, and costing him as much as a night in Palanthas — that was the type of world he was living in now.

The type of world he lived in now… Marakion put his fingers to his face and massaged his eyes gently. He couldn't make the memories go away. Even if he blocked the images, the essence of them still came to him. He couldn't seem to shut that out. It infected his every thought, his every action.

He relaxed, and his muscles began to unknot from the day's exercise. He could feel the pull of exhaustion on him. His fingers continued to massage closed eyelids, and the inn slowly drifted from his attention.

Where is she, Marakion? A familiar voice asked the question again inside his head.

"I don't know. Nearby somewhere. I don't know," he muttered.

That's not good enough, Marakion. Where is she? Where?

"I'm looking, trying to find her!"

Not good enough, Marakion. There can be no excuses. They'll kill her, you know. Every day you fail to find them is another day they could kill her, or use her.

"I know. I'll find them. If I have to rip apart this entire continent. I will."

You'd better.

The accusing voice drifted away, to be replaced by the vision that haunted his nights when he slept and his waking hours whenever he lost the concentration that kept it at bay.

Fire. fire and smoke. the flames licked

the top of the tower windows. The smoke

spiraled up from every part of the castle,

blackening the sky. despair wrenched at

Marakion's heart. he had returned home in

time to see it fall to the hands of a

pillaging group of brigands.

His horse slipped on the cobblestones that

led into the castle. he yanked brutally on

the reins, pulling the galloping animal to a

stop. the horse almost stumbled to its

knees. Marakion leapt from its back and

raced into the castle gardens. They were

trampled, destroyed, burned.

"Marissa!" he shouted above the

crackling flames and tearing, rending

sounds of destruction that came from

within the castle proper. "Tagor! Bess!" He

was across the garden in a heartbeat and

ran through the entryway. The great

double doors lay broken and scattered on

the floor. the huge foyer was destroyed, a

shambles, a mockery of its original

grandeur. One scruffy-bearded ruffian

stood guard at the entrance.

The marauder charged. He had

determination and purpose in his eyes;

Marakion had murder. Rage fueled Marakion's

sword arm, fear for his family

infusing his body with uncanny speed. He

smashed the invader's sword aside and

delivered a vicious return stroke at the head.

The marauder ducked under the

powerful attack and slipped a cut at

Marakion's midriff. Marakion parried,

stepped inside the invader's guard, and ran him through.

The invader fell and gasped as his life

seeped away. Marakion put his foot on the

man's chest and kicked violently, freeing his

blade. The dying man's screams ended by the

time Marakion reached the top of the lefthand stairs.

"Marissa!"

Marakion raced to his younger sister's

room, the first room on the second level.

She was not there, but, as with the foyer,

her room was cast into disarray — books

thrown on the floor, the bed a smoldering

pile of burned sheets, straw, and wood. Next

to the burning mass lay a piece of cloth. He

recognized it, grabbed it: a scrap of her

dress, the lavender dress she always wore

for his homecoming. A spattering of blood

tainted the remnant.

"Marissa!" He yelled in impotent rage. His

sixteen-year-old sister, his best friend, so

bright, so alive… Marakion uttered a

strangled cry, clutched the cloth in his fist…

"Sir?"

Sir…?

"Sir, are you asleep?"

Marakion started awake as the hand touched him. He was disoriented, thought he was still there, still back at his burned and devastated home. His hand reacted to the touch with the quickness of a snake. Snatching the thin wrist, he held it tightly. There was a gasp of pain. Marakion stared hard, trying to focus his eyes.

Marissa?

The eyes of the woman were wide, and she was frozen where she stood.

Marakion's harsh stare did not relent, but his grip lost some of its steel. No, not Marissa, a barmaid, just a barmaid.

"What?" he asked shortly, releasing the woman's wrist. Her hair was a dirty red, and as unkempt as the plain, rumpled brown dress she wore.

She appraised him coolly with shrewish eyes. "Griffort wants to know if you want pepper in your stew."

"Fine," Marakion said, "that's fine."

"I'll tell him," she said curtly, and left.

Marakion slowly withdrew something from his tunic. Unfolding it, he laid the piece of lavender cloth out in front of him. It was worn, faded; dark brown spots stained it.

Closing his eyes, Marakion pressed the cloth against his cheek.

"Marissa…"

The following morning dawned cold and unpleasant. It was snowing. As Marakion shouldered his pack and tied on his cloak, he stared out the window in his room and thought that today would be the day he found the marauders. Today would be the day he found where the scum holed up.

Griffort was wiping down the bar, looked up to see him.

"Morning, sir," he said. "Breakfast for you today? I might be able to scrape together some eggs, if you've the wealth for 'em."

"No. I'm leaving."

Griffort nodded. "Which way you headed?"

"West."

Griffort's face darkened, and he motioned Marakion closer. The innkeeper spoke in a low voice, "You want a copper's worth of free advice?"

Marakion nodded for him to continue.

"Don't go west, at least not straight west. Skirt Mount Phineous if you can. Evil things going on up there."

Marakion was interested. "How so?"

"Lader's Knoll." The innkeeper shook his head. "We used to have an arrangement with a farmer up there in Lader's Knoll. Taters don't grow down here, as well as other stuff Bartus likes for his cooking, so we'd swap bread and the like for vegetables and such — but I can see you're not into long stories, so I'll cut it short. One day, the farmer stopped bringing his wagon down. I sent one of the town boys to Lader's Knoll to see what had happened. The kid never came back. Something bad's going on up there, stranger — " Griffort stopped at the sight of Marakion's smile.

"Perfect," Marakion said. "Does the name 'Knightsbane Marauders' mean anything to you? Have you heard of them?"

The disconcerted innkeeper shook his head slowly. "No."

Marakion stared at him hard, then turned and left the inn. Behind him he heard the innkeeper's comment to the barmaid: "Must'a got his noggin cracked somewhere. World's full of crazies nowadays."

Gylar awoke the next morning in a better mood. He'd slept all the previous day and all night. His confusion and fear were replaced by purpose. He wanted to know why the gods killed everyone, why they allowed people like his mother, and like Lutha, to die needlessly. Well, he would ask them.

The question turned over again and again in his head as he buried his mother next to the rest of his family. The snow fell lightly on him and the ground at which he worked. It was almost as though the skies knew Gylar didn't want to look at the village anymore.

When his mother was resting with his little brother and father, Gylar went back inside the house.

He closed the door on the storm outside, went to his father's room, and pulled down the pack he'd kept on the wall, the pack Gylar had seen his father use countless times when they'd gone hunting together. A brief wash of memories splashed over Gylar. He sniffled and ran a sleeve across his nose.

Turning his thoughts to more immediate tasks, Gylar took the pack into the kitchen. He collected some food suited to traveling, a good kitchen knife, a spoon, and a small pot. Gylar looked about for anything else he might need. A bedroll, he thought. He went to his room, stripped the woolen blanket off the bed, and rolled it up, tied it onto his father's already laden pack.

He put on a thick cloak and pulled the pack to the door. The snowfall had sheathed the ground in white. Mount Phineous was hidden in the distance, but its presence still loomed in Gylar's mind. What better place to contact the gods than from the top of their latest creation?

He adjusted his cloak more snugly, threw the heavy pack over his shoulder. It unsteadied him for a moment, but he regained his balance and thrust an arm through the remaining strap, securing the burden. He turned and looked one last time at what once had been his home. Gylar said nothing, bowed his head, and began walking toward the great mountain.

Marakion watched as the young boy, bundled to the teeth, left Lader's Knoll.

"Off on a journey, are we?" he said quietly from the shadow of a wall. "And just where are you going, little looter?"

Marakion had been in the small village for about half an hour, and he hadn't seen a living being. His disappointment was acute. He'd assumed that Lader's Knoll was the marauders' camp. It was perfect, a desolate place; all those within traveling distance were scared to visit.

But instead of seedy shacks full of murderers and cutthroats, he'd found fresh graves or, sometimes, a few bodies, sleeping the slumber of the dead. The gaunt faces were a faint purple, and dried blood covered their lips.

Another false trail. His frustration was painful almost beyond bearing. He wandered the town in search of some sign, any sign that this had been the hideout of the marauders, but it appeared that the only curse to take up residence in this town was a plague.

"There's your evil, Griffort," he'd muttered.

He'd been about to start off from the devastated village when he'd seen a door to one of the houses open. He slid from view behind one of the nearby buildings.

With a quick-beating heart and silenced breathing, Marakion watched the boy leave the village. "Well, well. Looting the dead, eh? Where are your cohorts, Marauder? Or did they just send you to scout the area?"

Marakion exulted in his discovery. The boy was headed toward Mount Phineous! Marakion berated himself for not thinking of it before. What better place for a band of brigands than a Cataclysm-spawned, uninhabited mountain?

Marakion detached himself from the shadow of the house and followed. He was not about to reveal himself to his guide, at least not until the sanctuary was found.

"I'm coming, Marissa," he whispered as he fell into a loping stride behind his prey.

Occasionally during the trek up the mountain, the boy turned to look at the sky, or at how far he'd separated himself from the village. The ever alert Marakion moved skillfully into a nearby copse of trees, ducked behind an outcropping of rock or shrubbery. It wasn't difficult for Marakion to remain hidden from the youngster's view. The cloud cover made the terrain gloomy, and the falling snow decreased visibility dramatically.

It was afternoon when the boy first stopped. After extracting a few things from his pack, he dumped it on the ground, sat on it, and began eating.

Marakion watched from just over a small hillock, built up by a tremendous snowdrift, then settled down to a meal of his own, consisting of some strips of dried rabbit.

The snow stopped falling sometime before noon, and the afternoon opened up clear and bright, making Marakion's stalking much more difficult, but not impossible. He smiled. It wouldn't be long now.

While tearing at the rough meat with his teeth, Marakion studied the youngling with interest. The boy was not very large; Marakion guessed him at about eleven or twelve years old. He looked innocent enough, sitting there, chomping on his lunch, not much like a sneak-thief. But, no, he was one of them — a messenger, maybe, or a pickpocket. He had to be.

Marakion's teeth fought the dried meat for another bite. He gauged the size of the mountain. It was not the biggest he'd seen, but impressive in its own right.

Marakion turned his attention back to the boy. He wasn't going anywhere for the moment. Obviously he'd settled down for a long rest. Marakion set his excellent hearing to guard and hunkered down comfortably.

Relaxing, he slipped into a light drowse, waiting for the boy to make the next move. He was startled back to wakefulness. His ears caught a crunching sound from up the mountain. Rolling to his feet, he peered over the drift.

The boy had heard the sound, too. He scrambled upright. The bramble-breaking noise grew louder. Marakion tensed his body, relaxed his mind, letting it disappear, allowing the energy to flow. This was it. This must be some rendezvous point. The entire band, maybe! He was ready.

But the boy did not run into the trees to welcome a gang of murderers. He did not call a greeting to comrades. Instead, he let out a fearful yell and, stumbling over himself, began running down the hill. Marakion stared curiously into the trees to see what was following.

A huge ogre burst from the foliage. Sallow and crustyskinned, the ogre charged forward with long, quick strides. Wet brambles and a few straggling pine needles showered off the creature as it ran, sending snow flying in a blinding flurry.

Marakion cursed as he watched the ogre closing on the boy. The damned ogre was ruining everything! Scaring off Marakion's guide, the ogre might kill the boy before Marakion could question him!

Gylar's heart beat against his rib cage like a woodpecker. The snow impeded every step of his short legs, while the ogre's strides cleared the terrain as though it were midsummer ground. It was just a matter of time. Gylar gulped for air as he struggled onward. His mind had gone numb, and all he could think of was escape. He'd heard stories about what ogres did to children…

Just at the height of his despair, when the ogre loomed over him, casting a nightlike shadow that engulfed Gylar, the strap of his pack slipped off his shoulder.

If Gylar had been thinking straight, he'd have abandoned his pack and kept going, but he reflexively hung onto it as it scraped the snow. Too late, he realized his error. The momentum of his flight sent him sprawling, then tumbling down the hill. He careened into a snowbank in a fluff of white.

The massive arm of the ogre plunged into the snow, groped around, then plucked out a struggling Gylar. The ogre's craggy mouth split like a crack in a tree's bark, revealing a fairly complete row of sharp teeth as dingy yellow as the ogre's mottled skin.

Twenty feet away, Marakion leaned against a tree, listening. A shimmer ran the length of Glint.

The ogre chuckled at the boy as it began to walk home. "Glad came," the ogre said, with a thick, grating accent. "Hungry, me. We eat, I and you." The ogre chuckled again, sounded like someone scraping rough rocks together. "Take home you to me. Dinner, we have — "

"Not today." Marakion said clearly in the frosty air as the two walked past the tree he stood behind. The ogre took one look at Marakion and dropped the boy into the snow with a snarl.

But Marakion was on the ogre before it could even raise its arms in defense. Marakion kicked out, struck the ogre in the knee, swung the Hat end of Glint into the side of the ogre's head.

The creature went down in a tumble of arms and snow. Marakion stood ready as the ogre surged onto its feet. It was calm, imposing.

"Leave, friend. The boy is under my protection. If you have any wits at all, you'll seek food elsewhere. Surely catching a deer could not be as much trouble as this little one will cost you."

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.

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."

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."