Griffort was wiping down the bar, looked up to see him.
“Morning, sir,” he said. “Breakfast for you today? I
might be able to scrape together some eggs, if you’ve the
wealth for ’em.”
“No. I’m leaving.”
Griffort nodded. “Which way you headed?”
“West.”
Griffort’s face darkened, and he motioned Marakion
closer. The innkeeper spoke in a low voice, “You want a
copper’s worth of free advice?”
Marakion nodded for him to continue.
“Don’t go west, at least not straight west. Skirt Mount
Phineous if you can. Evil things going on up there.”
Marakion was interested. “How so?”
“Lader’s Knoll.” The innkeeper shook his head. “We
used to have an arrangement with a farmer up there in
Lader’s Knoll. Taters don’t grow down here, as well as
other stuff Bartus likes for his cooking, so we’d swap bread
and the like for vegetables and such – but I can see you’re
not into long stories, so I’ll cut it short. One day, the farmer
stopped bringing his wagon down. I sent one of the town
boys to Lader’s Knoll to see what had happened. The kid
never came back. Something bad’s going on up there,
stranger – ” Griffort stopped at the sight of Marakion’s
smile.
“Perfect,” Marakion said. “Does the name ‘Knightsbane
Marauders’ mean anything to you? Have you heard of
them?”
The disconcerted innkeeper shook his head slowly.
“No.”
Marakion stared at him hard, then turned and left the
inn. Behind him he heard the innkeeper’s comment to the
barmaid: “Must’a got his noggin cracked somewhere.
World’s full of crazies nowadays.”
*****
Gylar awoke the next morning in a better mood. He’d
slept all the previous day and all night. His confusion and
fear were replaced by purpose. He wanted to know why the
gods killed everyone, why they allowed people like his
mother, and like Lutha, to die needlessly. Well, he would
ask them.
The question turned over again and again in his head as he
buried his mother next to the rest of his family. The snow
fell lightly on him and the ground at which he worked. It
was almost as though the skies knew Gylar didn’t want to
look at the village anymore.
When his mother was resting with his little brother and
father, Gylar went back inside the house.
He closed the door on the storm outside, went to his
father’s room, and pulled down the pack he’d kept on the
wall, the pack Gylar had seen his father use countless times
when they’d gone hunting together. A brief wash of
memories splashed over Gylar. He sniffled and ran a sleeve
across his nose.
Turning his thoughts to more immediate tasks, Gylar
took the pack into the kitchen. He collected some food
suited to traveling, a good kitchen knife, a spoon, and a
small pot. Gylar looked about for anything else he might
need. A bedroll, he thought. He went to his room, stripped
the woolen blanket off the bed, and rolled it up, tied it onto
his father’s already laden pack.
He put on a thick cloak and pulled the pack to the door.
The snowfall had sheathed the ground in white. Mount Phineous
was hidden in the distance, but its presence still
loomed in Gylar’s mind. What better place to contact the
gods than from the top of their latest creation?
He adjusted his cloak more snugly, threw the heavy
pack over his shoulder. It unsteadied him for a moment, but
he regained his balance and thrust an arm through the
remaining strap, securing the burden. He turned and looked
one last time at what once had been his home. Gylar said
nothing, bowed his head, and began walking toward the
great mountain.
*****
Marakion watched as the young boy, bundled to the
teeth, left Lader’s Knoll.
“Off on a journey, are we?” he said quietly from the
shadow of a wall. “And just where are you going, little
looter?”
Marakion had been in the small village for about half an
hour, and he hadn’t seen a living being. His disappointment
was acute. He’d assumed that Lader’s Knoll was the
marauders’ camp. It was perfect, a desolate place; all those
within traveling distance were scared to visit.