'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.'
NO GODS, NO HEROES
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 woud 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.
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.
