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