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
NICK O’DONOHOE
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, mis-
matched, 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
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