But instead of seedy shacks full of murderers and
cutthroats, he’d found fresh graves or, sometimes, a few
bodies, sleeping the slumber of the dead. The gaunt faces
were a faint purple, and dried blood covered their lips.
Another false trail. His frustration was painful almost
beyond bearing. He wandered the town in search of some
sign, any sign that this had been the hideout of the
marauders, but it appeared that the only curse to take up
residence in this town was a plague.
“There’s your evil, Griffort,” he’d muttered.
He’d been about to start off from the devastated village
when he’d seen a door to one of the houses open. He slid
from view behind one of the nearby buildings.
With a quick-beating heart and silenced breathing,
Marakion watched the boy leave the village. “Well, well.
Looting the dead, eh? Where are your cohorts, Marauder?
Or did they just send you to scout the area?”
Marakion exulted in his discovery. The boy was headed
toward Mount Phineous! Marakion berated himself for not
thinking of it before. What better place for a band of
brigands than a Cataclysm-spawned, uninhabited mountain?
Marakion detached himself from the shadow of the
house and followed. He was not about to reveal himself to
his guide, at least not until the sanctuary was found.
“I’m coming, Marissa,” he whispered as he fell into a
loping stride behind his prey.
*****
Occasionally during the trek up the mountain, the boy
turned to look at the sky, or at how far he’d separated
himself from the village. The ever alert Marakion moved
skillfully into a nearby copse of trees, ducked behind an
outcropping of rock or shrubbery. It wasn’t difficult for
Marakion to remain hidden from the youngster’s view. The
cloud cover made the terrain gloomy, and the falling snow
decreased visibility dramatically.
It was afternoon when the boy first stopped. After
extracting a few things from his pack, he dumped it on the
ground, sat on it, and began eating.
Marakion watched from just over a small hillock, built
up by a tremendous snowdrift, then settled down to a meal
of his own, consisting of some strips of dried rabbit.
The snow stopped falling sometime before noon, and
the afternoon opened up clear and bright, making
Marakion’s stalking much more difficult, but not
impossible. He smiled. It wouldn’t be long now.
While tearing at the rough meat with his teeth,
Marakion studied the youngling with interest. The boy was
not very large; Marakion guessed him at about eleven or
twelve years old. He looked innocent enough, sitting there,
chomping on his lunch, not much like a sneak-thief. But,
no, he was one of them – a messenger, maybe, or a
pickpocket. He had to be.
Marakion’s teeth fought the dried meat for another bite.
He gauged the size of the mountain. It was not the biggest
he’d seen, but impressive in its own right.
Marakion turned his attention back to the boy. He
wasn’t going anywhere for the moment. Obviously he’d
settled down for a long rest. Marakion set his excellent
hearing to guard and hunkered down comfortably.
Relaxing, he slipped into a light drowse, waiting for the
boy to make the next move. He was startled back to wake-
fulness. His ears caught a crunching sound from up the
mountain. Rolling to his feet, he peered over the drift.
The boy had heard the sound, too. He scrambled
upright. The bramble-breaking noise grew louder. Marakion
tensed his body, relaxed his mind, letting it disappear,
allowing the energy to flow. This was it. This must be some
rendezvous point. The entire band, maybe! He was ready.
But the boy did not run into the trees to welcome a gang
of murderers. He did not call a greeting to comrades.
Instead, he let out a fearful yell and, stumbling over himself,
began running down the hill. Marakion stared curiously into
the trees to see what was following.
A huge ogre burst from the foliage. Sallow and crusty-
skinned, the ogre charged forward with long, quick strides.
Wet brambles and a few straggling pine needles showered
off the creature as it ran, sending snow flying in a blinding