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 LEFT-
HAND 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.