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."
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."