The cataclysm t2-2 Page 13

  Darll gripped Graym's shoulder. "They're fake! Nothing but armor on sticks and bones!"

  He ran toward the "officers," apparently the only living men on the field. Skorm shouted a command in a harsh voice.

  Two of the men sidled around Darll, keeping out of range of his sword. One of them raised a throwing mace and swung it with a deadly whir.

  Graym, desperate, flung the axe end-over-end. It thunked handle-first into the mace-swinger, knocked him senseless.

  Darll leapt over the fallen man, stepping on his back. "Officer material," he grunted, and wrapped his dangling manacle chain around the other man's sword and pulled. The sword flew out of the man's hand.

  Darll shouted back to Jarek. "Pick up his sword!"

  Jarek picked it up, dropping his own sword. Graym punched an opponent in the stomach and doubled him over, sent him stumbling into two men behind him.

  The men staggered back and raised their swords, jumping at the Wolf brothers, who were closest.

  Fanris and Fenris looked at the armored, bone-covered sword-carrying men. Panic-stricken, the brothers both shrieked, "We surrender!" and tossed their maces in the air.

  The maces hit each man squarely in the head. Fenris and Fanris looked at each other in relief and turned to run away.

  The remaining men, daunted by five berserkers crazed enough to charge an entire army, fled.

  Skorm turned his skull face toward Graym. The graverobber charged, aiming a vicious two-handed sword straight for Graym's heart.

  Darll yelled, "The axe!" picked it up, and threw it.

  Graym caught the axe by the thong, just as it struck Skorm's sword and shattered the blade. Graym grabbed the axe handle clumsily, and smacked Skorm on the head.

  Skorm Bonelover, the Sorrow of Huma, the Dark Lady's Liege Man, the legendary Eater of Enemies, dropped to the ground with a whimper.

  The fat cooper, axe in hand, stood panting over him. Rhael ran down the hill, spear in hand.

  "We won!" she cried exultantly.

  Halting, she looked down at Skorm's shattered sword and frowned. "That looks familiar," she said. "That's the Protector's Sword of Office!"

  Graym bent and pulled the skull off Skorm's face. He was conscious again and looked pinched and scared, but fairly ordinary beyond that.

  "Protector!" Rhael gasped.

  Darll kicked the Protector's sword hilt away from him and stood watching over him.

  Rhael was staring admiringly at an embarrassed Graym. "I heard the noise. I saw the whole thing. You charged an army by yourselves!"

  Darll opened his mouth to explain, but Jarek trod on his foot. "We toppled our barrels on them. Then Graym was the first one down. Not even Darll could outrun him."

  Rhael sighed. "What a wonderful idea. But your trade goods — your ale — you sacrificed them for us?"

  "One barrel made it," Jarek told her. "It rolled off to one side and didn't hit anybody." He shook his head. "But I bet all those other soldiers are drinking it now."

  "There are no other soldiers, rock-brain!" Darll growled. "This Protector and his friends built them out of corpses, tugged on ropes to make them move, pretended to train them. They wanted to scare everyone out of town, then loot it, and it nearly worked."

  Jarek scratched his head. "Why didn't the town set up a bunch of fake soldiers to fight back?" he asked.

  Darll looked at Graym, at Jarek, and at the Wolf brothers, who, seeing the fight was over, had returned. Darll grinned.

  "They did set up fake soldiers. Sort of."

  Graym cleared his throat. "Well, we'd best get on the road." He handed the Axe of Just Kidding back to Rhael. "Business calls, Miss. Glad we could help, and all."

  She brushed his cheek with her finger. "You knew," she said wonderingly. "Even before you attacked, you knew Skorm was a fraud."

  Graym looked uncomfortable. "Well, I had an idea. Couldn't be sure, of course."

  Darll rolled his eyes.

  Graym, feeling awkward, said simply, "Nice meeting you, Miss." He turned and walked through the graves and the shattered mock soldiers.

  They collected the cart and the single surviving barrel. Graym tried, briefly, to find the barrel taps and the rest of their belongings, then said, "Give it up." They dragged the cart through the scattered armor, framework, and bones of the open graves.

  The cart rolled freely. Jarek looked at the single barrel in it and said happily, "The price of ale must be way up now."

  "Best thing that could happen, really," Graym said, but he sounded troubled. He and the Wolf brothers drew the cart alone. Darll and Jarek walked alongside as they moved up the last hill before Krinneor. Darll was trying to learn the second verse of "The Bald Maid and the Barber."

  Fenris, beside Graym, said, "I hate to turn him in."

  Graym nodded. "He's not a bad lot. Wanted to kill us or jail us, but face it. Who wouldn't?"

  Fanris, on his other side, said, "Can't we just let him go?"

  Graym stared at the road. "He's expected. We were paid half in advance. We can't just two-step into Krinneor — "

  "Do we need to go there so bad?" Fenris asked softly.

  Graym looked back at the cart, bouncing easily with one barrel of ale and no supplies. "It's all we've got left."

  They walked in silence, watching Darll try to teach Jarek to juggle. The mercenary, even while mocking Jarek's efforts, had a hand affectionately on the man's shoulder.

  The road cut through a pass and angled to the left.

  Jarek sniffed the air. "I smell something funny."

  "That's the sea, boy," said Graym.

  But Darll looked troubled. "I didn't know there was an arm of the sea here."

  "A port city," Graym explained. "Not just rich, but a trade center. We're nearly here. Beyond this curve, we'll see the road on the shore, probably a lovely seaside view, all the way to Krinneor — "

  They rounded the comer.

  The hill plunged down to a sandy beach strewn with rocks. The road ended, half-covered with sand, sloping down into the water and disappearing. Ahead was water, all the way to the horizon,a new sea, still gray with the silt and mud of the land collapsing and the waters rushing in.

  A half mile out from shore, a group of battered golden spires stuck upright, barely a man's height above the waves. Gulls were nesting on them.

  The men rolled the cart to the beach and stood.

  "The golden towers," Fenris said.

  "The marble doors," Fanris said.

  "And excellent drains," said Darll.

  Graym, staring at the spires in shock, murmured, "I hear that's very important for a city."

  The others laughed for quite a while. Graym sat on a rock by the shore, staring.

  Jarek moved down the beach, picking up stones to skip. The Wolf brothers, once they were over their fear of gulls, took off their boots and went wading. Darll walked up to Graym. "Where to from here?"

  "Nowhere." Graym stared, unseeing, over the open water. "No horses, no food, no money. No Krinneor." He blinked his eyes rapidly. "All gone."

  Darll was shocked. "There's a world out there. You can start over."

  Behind them, a voice said, "You can stay here."

  Rhael came forward, holding some sort of medallion and twisting it in her fingers. Her determination was gone; she looked unsure of herself.

  Graym stared at her a moment. "You knew the truth about Krinneor, didn't you?"

  "We all knew. No one wanted to tell you before you helped us."

  "I don't suppose you did, Miss," Graym said heavily. "And after?"

  "Afterward, Elder Werlow was afraid of you. You're fierce warriors."

  Darll had the grace not to laugh.

  "So you let us go. Good joke." Graym sighed.

  She twisted the medallion chain almost into a knot. "I argued with them and said I'd follow you and apologize, and — and give you this."

  She held up the medallion, realized how twisted it was. "Sorry." She untwisted the chain nimbly
, then dropped it over Graym's neck. "There."

  The medallion was a small shield with a single piece of black opal in the shape of an axe. Graym looked down at it. "It was brave, your coming here when you were embarrassed. Thank you, Miss. I'll keep this."

  "Until he gets hungry," Darll said bluntly, "then he'll sell it. He'll have to."

  Rhael ignored the mercenary. "Why not stay in Graveside?" she asked. She touched the medallion. "To fill the office that goes with this."

  "Office?" Graym said blankly, opening his eyes.

  "Of Protector," Rhael said. On impulse, she kissed his cheek. "Please take it. Your men, too. You'll have food and lodging, and we know we can trust you."

  Graym stared bemusedly at her. "Me, a law officer?" He turned to Darll. "Would I be any good, sir?"

  "Unless you rob them, you can't do worse than the last one they had." He looked at the dangling chain. "I suppose you'll put me in jail there?"

  Graym sighed. "Can't do it, now that I'm their Protector. Wouldn't be right, would it, sir? I mean, you're their war hero and all."

  He frowned, concentrating, then smiled and slapped Darll on the back. "You can go, sir. It's all right. You're pardoned."

  Darll's jaw fell and he goggled at Graym. "You're pardoning me?"

  "First offense, like you said, sir. You've matured since then. Probably be an upstanding citizen of Graveside." He puckered his brow, thinking, and suddenly brightened. "You could stay and be my military advisor."

  "You lead? Me advise?" It was too much. Darll shook his head and walked away, swearing, laughing, and muttering.

  "What's he upset about?" Jarek asked. "He fought all right."

  "You all fought wonderfully," Rhael said firmly. "You're our heroes." She kissed Graym again, then walked swiftly back through the pass toward Graveside.

  "Heroes?" the Wolf brothers said at once, and laughed.

  Graym said gruffly, "There've been worse."

  Darll looked back up the road toward Graveside, at the retreating Rhael. "Lucky for them they found us, in fact."

  Graym grinned at the others. "Best thing that could have happened, really."

  Suddenly he was back at the cart, tugging on one of the shafts. Darll joined him. "Right, then. Let's get back." Graym pointed at the remaining barrel of ale. "Skull-Splitter all around, when we get there, on the house."

  It was a surprisingly fast trip.

  INTO SHADOW, INTO LIGHT

  Richard A. Knaak

  The knight stalked across the hellish landscape, sword in hand. The fog failed to conceal the desolation around him. Gnarled trees and churned dirt were sights all too familiar after so long. His world, his cursed world, was always much the same: dry, crackling soil, no sun, no shadows, no refuge, no life, just endless devastation… and somewhere in the fog, those who ever hunted him.

  The fever burned, but, as always, he forced himself to withstand the pain. Sweat poured down his face, trickling into his armor. The plague that coursed through him never rested. Oddly, it had been a part of him so long that he probably would have felt lost without it.

  The rusted armor creaked as the knight stumbled up a small hill. Beneath the rust on his breastplate there could still be seen a ravaged insignia marking him as a knight of the Solamnic orders. He rarely looked down at the fading mark, for it was a mockery of his life, a reminder of why he had been condemned to this existence.

  The price of being a traitor had been heavier than he had ever thought possible.

  As he started down the other side of the ravaged hill, the knight caught sight of something odd, something out of place in this wasteland. It seemed to glitter, despite the lack of sunlight, and to the weary knight it was worth more than a mountain of gold. A stream of clear, cool water flowed no more than a few yards from where he stood.

  He smiled — a rare smile of hope. The knight staggered forward, moving as fast as he could manage, ignoring pain, fatigue, fear. How long since his last drink of water? The memory escaped him.

  Kneeling before the stream, he closed his eyes. "My Lord Paladine, I beseech you! Hear this simple prayer! Let me partake this once! A single sip of water, that is all I ask!"

  The knight leaned forward, reached out toward the stream… and fell back in horror as he stared into its reflective surface.

  "Paladine preserve me," he muttered. Slowly leaning forward again, he stared at his image in the stream.

  Pale as a corpse, his face was gaunt, almost skull-like. Lank, wispy hair — what could be seen beneath his helm — was plastered to his head. His eyes were colorless; had they always been that way? A faint, sardonic smile briefly touched his countenance. "I look like a ghost. How appropriate now," he said to his reflection.

  The water continued to flow past, and he recalled the purpose for which he had paused. Again he stretched forth his gauntleted hand. The water might rust the metal, but the parched knight did not care. All that existed was the hope that this once — just this once — he might be allowed a sip.

  His fingertips reached the surface of the tiny river, passed through it without even touching.

  He cursed, cursed the gods who had doomed him to this wretched life. In frustration, he thrust his hand as deep into the water as he could. The stream flowed on. He didn't create so much as a ripple.

  Growing more desperate, the knight thrust his other hand into the water. He tried to cup some of the liquid, but each time his hands came free of the stream, they held nothing. This land might have been a desert for all he could drink.

  His head lowered. The sound of mocking laughter came to him, but he did not know if it was real or his imagination. He had never known.

  "How long must I pay?" the knight demanded of his unseen tormentor. "What must I do to earn a sip of water?"

  He pounded his fist against the ground, but even that much comfort was denied him. His hand could not touch the soil. There was always a small distance between the world and him. The ground, like everything else, refused to accept his touch, refused him peace.

  "I am dead!" he roared at no one. "Let me rest!"

  Dead. He was nothing more than a ghost now, a ghost sentenced to pay in death for the darksome deeds he had performed in life. Now and forever, the Abyss was his home, his reward for living that life.

  How long since his death? He had no idea. Time meant nothing here. But he thought the Dragon War must be long over. What was happening now in the world of his birth, Krynn? Had centuries passed since his spirit had been exiled to this phantom plain where no one existed but himself and those who sought vengeance? Or had it been only days?

  The clink of armor warned him that he was no longer alone. His pursuers had found him again. The knight reached for his sword, but it was flight that was on his mind. Combat was a last, desperate effort; it was predestined that he would lose any battle.

  Then the whispers began.

  Rennard… We come!

  His name. After so long, he often forgot. They were always there to remind him, however. They could never forget the name of the one responsible.

  Rennard!

  Betrayer…

  Oathbreaker…

  Rennard may not have remembered his name, but now the other memories were too terrible to forget.

  His pursuers could not be far behind. Despite his danger, the cursed knight could not help but take one last desperate glance at the cool, sparkling stream.

  "One sip," he prayed, reaching his hand a last time toward the water. "Is that so much to ask?"

  And then… it was as if the world, ALL worlds, shrieked in agony, began to shake.

  Rennard found himself cast out into an invisible maelstrom, caught up in some new, inventive torment of the gods.

  The whispers died. He wondered if his pursuers, too, had been caught up by this chaos. Rennard stood. The desolate realm that was his home, his prison, began to fade before his eyes. He caught a glimpse of shadowy forms, swords, and bitter eyes, then they dwindled away to nothing. He heard a sou
nd — one so out of place that he could not believe he heard it.

  "The Honor of Huma survives

  The Glory of Huma survives

  Dragons, hear!

  Solamnic breath is taken

  Life; hear!

  My sword is broken of Dragons"

  It was a human voice singing. And he heard a name… Huma? How could such a thing be? What did it mean? The melody drew the knight. Without thinking, Rennard moved toward it, followed it…

  He found himself standing in a fogbound, desolate land.

  Something is different, Rennard thought. This is not the Abyss!

  The song faded away, but Rennard barely noticed. He stared at his surroundings. Some sort of terrible upheaval had wrecked this land. Trees — leviathans — lay broken on the ground. What once had been a well-traveled road was cracked and half buried under rubble. Thick clouds filled the heavens. A mortal might have thought this some variation of the infernal Abyss, but Rennard knew better. The living forest, struggling to survive, a bird fluttering overhead, the sounds that assailed him — all spoke of life.

  He fell to his knees.

  "Krynn!" Rennard whispered. "How have I come here? Is this truly the real world?"

  A part of him was afraid it was a dream, that any second he would find himself once more fleeing his everpresent enemies. "Is this Krynn? Or have I merely entered some new phase of my punishment?" he asked bitterly.

  A low laugh — or was it the wind? — teased him. The spec tral knight twisted around, searching for the source. "Morgion, dark Lord of Decay and Disease, master of my grief, do I still entertain you?" he cried out.

  No answer came.

  Was that a tall, bronze tower he saw in the distance, a tower perched upon the edge of a precipice? A tower dedicated to Morgion, used by those who served him? The knight stared, but all he saw was a lone tree leaning precariously over the edge of a newly formed cliff. It was not the sanctum of the malevolent deity.

  Bewildered, confused, he stared at his surroundings and made a bitter discovery. The muddy ground in which he knelt was soft. Despite the weight of his bulky armor, Rennard had not sunk so much as a finger's width into Krynn's blessed soil. He made not the slightest impression.