Mark of the Fool

“Bang! Bang! Bang!” Osshar grumbled, his fangs grinding as the chamber’s main doors boomed on their hinges. “All this banging’s driving me mad! Why aren’t we attacking?”

He scrutinised his brothers—lip curling in distaste at minor imperfections marring the otherwise perfect form that all three shared—they squatted on elaborate thrones, observing the chamber’s side entrances.

“Patience!” Azzad snapped, revealing chipped, yellowed teeth. The fool never did take care of his fangs properly. “Why attack when we control the fortified position? Let them bang away and exhaust themselves! That’s to our advantage!”

“We should at least use the lava!” Osshar pointed to pipes spider-webbing across the ceiling and running down the chamber walls, burrowing through them, then vanishing behind stone surrounding the three carven images of themselves outside the doors. Within the towering ceiling in the room, lay an enormous chamber where lava was pumped directly into a reservoir from the earthbeneath the Hold then dispensed at the triplets’ whims.

Ossgar licked his hyena-like chops, remembering the last time they’d poured lava onto a band of unsuspecting rivals seeking their lives. To this day, the delightful smells as lava bathed them, and their terrified screams, still made his pulse quicken.

How long ago had that been?

A century?

A millennium?

Far too long.

What was the point of a lava trap if one never got to use it?

“Where are they?” Sabai demanded, moving away from his throne and growling at the runtish pazuzite hovering before a peephole. “Are they not back at the entrance?”

“N-no, most malicious of masters!” The pazuzite cried. “I don’t see the interlopers! Just the monsters they conjured!”

“I told you we should have thrown the doors open and swarmed them!” Sabai whirled on his brothers. “You foolish fools! This is why father prefers me to you two impulsive brutes! You have no subtlety! Cowardice oozes from you in a stink that everyone in the realm can smell!”

“You dare!” Azzad snapped. “You are the greatest fool of fools! We have full tactical advantage here!”

He gestured to their demon forces spread throughout the enormous chamber: a hundred pazuzites with claws twitching, and another hundred tiashivas sharpening bone axes against each other. Above, scores of agwiagma floated near the ceiling, their forehead tentacles glowing with power.

B'alamxibas waited in the shadowy corners of the vast room, poised and ready to spring from the shadows and fall upon their foes in the light.

Hosts of varied demons had come together, waiting for their orders: eight-armed makadeans—tauric demon spiders propelled by eight legs and eight arms—each armed with heavy crossbows meant to rain volleys of hellfire-hardened, iron, bolts on those foolish enough to barge through the doors. Demonic suuderai boiled silently in the gloom beneath the brothers’ thrones, the sinister creatures eager to possess unwary mortals.

“See?” Azzad pointed to the room’s side entrances also covered with lava pipes feeding through the stone around them. “We’ve covered every direction, our forces are ready, even a demon-host led by the Three who Dwell in Ash would break against our defences! Why throw away tactical advantage just to rush into the halls like maniacs? Where’s the logic in that?”

“But, then we won’t be able to use the lava!” Osshar snarled. “You foolish fools are fooling yourselves if you think those mortals won’t be getting a taste of my simple, but masterful trap today!”

“Well, trap or no trap, we won’t be using anything if they don’t come to us, Osshar.” Azzad growled. “Where are they? Blast it, I wish we had our sniffers. They’d tell us where they are.”

“Father needs them,” Sabai said. “And we—Wait…do you hear something?”

“No, why—?” Osshar paused. “...wait…yes. Like the earth rumbling?”

The three hyena-headed demons looked all around, their ears twitching and swivelling.

“It’s a…grinding sound, right?” Osshar grunted.

“Masters!” A pazuzite shouted, pointing at a wall. “I sense great fear coming from there! And strange noises!”

“What?” Azzad frowned. “Isn’t that one of the kitchens? What are they—It sounds like they’re tunnelling!”

Sabai snarled. “Archers! Pivot your aim! Troops! Turn! Prepare to strike as they come through! I want those invaders dead before they can take three steps!”

Osshar scowled, his anger rising as he leapt from his throne. “I want to tear them apart personally. How dare they deny me my lava!”

A massive tongue licked his enormous belly-lips like he was tasting something.

“First, I’ll drown them in mucus, then swallow a few of their warriors whole. My laugh is going to pop ear-drums, and my magic will poison their insides. He began to jiggle at his own plan.

“No fair!” Sabai snapped, charging up behind Osshar. “First blood is mine!”

“No!” Osshar turned, ready to reprimand his brother.

Only for a moment.

First, he felt a sudden surge of mana like a riptide.

Then a mounting boom rocked the chamber.

He whirled in time to see a tremendous hole rupture a wall—wide enough for him and his brother to fit through shoulder to shoulder—ejecting a storm of boulders that dropped onto hapless demons standing too close.

But the hole was soon obscured by a floating mix of mist and stone dust.

A voracious roaring wind followed.

A sour stench filled the air.

A whirlwind of acid sprayed from the hole.

Osshar’s sensitive ears screamed in pain, acid fumes gnawed at his nose, a tornado swelled, growing in intensity, whirling into the chamber, gathering up stones and demons close by.

“Look out!” Sabai leapt back.

Acid droplets sprayed like water, burning tiashivas, melting their flesh in instants. Osshar growled—his own demonic form was made of much sterner stuff—and waded forward with confidence, straight toward the whirlwind.

His bulk would keep him anchored to the ground.

His resilient hide would resist the acid: he’d simply walk through the spell and—

Glowing droplets touched his skin, hissing dangerously.

He flinched, screaming as his flesh began to burn.

“What’s this?” He cried. “It’s burning!”

Radiant holy liquid sprayed over the stunned demon, burning skin, flesh, and, as he inhaled, scorching his lungs. “Agh!” Osshar stumbled back, trying to escape the holy rain, but the tornado was already on him—full of the blessed drenching liquid—which swirled with acid, eating away his rubbery hide.

“Got…got to get out!” He gasped.

A sudden whoosh caught his attention in time for him to spot an enormous cauldron—glowing with divine blessing—barreling down on him at great speed. The blessed vessel struck with the deep clang of a rusty church bell, almost bowling the demon over. Metal crumpled against his bulk, burning his hide with divinity.

Screeching, Osshar fought to peel the crumpled metal away, casting the ruined cauldron into the tornado as it finally passed. He coughed and heaved, his chest wracked in agony: his vision blurring from holy fluid stinging his eyes and tongue as droplets peppered his face.

‘They have at least one priest,’ he thought, enraged. ‘Those mortals used their filthy blessings on our kitchen vessels and our food and sent them against us like a weapon! What kind of scum fouls a perfectly good meal that takes days to percolate? They’re tricky, but let’s see how tricky they are when I kill the first one I see!’

Osshar looked up, squinting at the stone-dust swirling in the hole.

A flicker of movement.

“There!” He pointed. “Archers! Fire at the hole!”

A screech of terror filled the room as someone flew from the hole at incredible speed.

Osshar drank in the mounting fear, savouring it as dozens of bolts and lines of lightning shot past him, striking the brazen fool in mid-air. The scream quickly withered to a dying gurgle as crimson lightning ripped through the attacker’s form.

By the time the man collapsed, all he could do was twitch in silence by Osshar’s elephantine feet.

“That’s one less—Wait…” He stared. Now that the dead human lay before him, there was a familiarity about him. “Isn’t…he..that coward the necromancer brings here? What is he—”

He heard the sound, but much too late.

Osshar, son of Ikharrash, looked up in time to see an enormous human flying toward him—sheathed in the mana of many spells—with a titanic sword held in a tight grip. Before the powerful demon could even twitch, the warrior became a blur of motion.

Something raced for Osshar’s neck.

And then…the world was tumbling.

End over end, the chamber spun around him.

‘What’s this?’ He wondered. ‘Did a wizard bewitch my mind?’

He tried to right himself, anchoring his body to the ground, but…for some strange reason, he could feel neither his legs…nor arms. The sound of stone impacting the side of his hyena-like head gave a dull thud.

“Wh—’ he tried to choke out, but no air came to him. There was no breath in his lungs and….wait, what was he seeing? Standing above him was a body—headless and spasming—slowly sinking to the stone.

One of his foolish brothers had gotten themselves killed before the battle had truly started! How useless they were! A sneer spread across his lips.

‘How could he let his centuries of life end so easily, so foolishly, and be taken by unworthy mortals?’ He wondered. ‘Which one is it?’ His eyes scanned the fool’s form, trying to find the unique imperfections that would betray who the body belonged to: Azzad or Sabai.

He looked closely…then his heavy eyelids tried to widen in shock.

‘The body! It has no imperfections!’ He realised as though through a veil. ‘That’s…it’s mine! But how…how could I…’

As the last of his lifeblood poured from his severed head, his thoughts slowed and slowed…until—at last—he thought no more.

And so ended the life of Osshar, son of Ikharrash.

###

“I got one of the sons!” Hart’s shout came through the fog of stone dust and mist.

“Then let’s get the rest!” Prince Khalik shouted. “Everyone, get ready!”

“Forward!” Alex raised his staff, commanding another small horde of summoned monsters through the breach in the stone.

A pack of flicker dogs howled, charging through the gap and into the chamber, where they flickered into the ranks of the enemy, mauling them.

“First wave’s in!” Alex shouted. “Go!”

Claygon flew through the obscuring dust first, followed by Cedric, then Grimloch, Theresa, Brutus and then the others streamed through in a line.

Alex took a deep breath as he flew in. “Here we go!”

He emerged in the chamber, already commanding his Wizard’s Hands.

All around utter chaos reigned: hordes of demons were in disarray since Drestra’s tornado had ripped through their ranks, drenching them in acid and divinity infused broth. Cedric’s idea to bless both the cauldrons and their contents had been inspired, and throwing the enormous cook pots into the Sage’s whirlwind proved a devastating combination.

Hart’s idea to use Heinrich as a decoy was also inspired: putting an end to one evil life and wasting the demons’ first volley in one swoop.

And now, the demons’ were feeling their enemies’ bite.

The flicker dogs bit and harried the confused demons, allowing Hart to lead a charge straightfor another of Ikharrash’s sons. Snarling, the Champion’s bulbous target spread both mouths, set to unleash his demonic laughter and disgusting mucus, when—

Whoooooosh!

Claygon fired beams directly into the mouth on the demon’s gut.

Boom!

An explosion shattered the air, setting the monster ablaze, collapsing his laughter into screams.

And then the Champion of Uldar was on him.

The huge demon barely raised his guard, andthe blade—driven by Hart’s tremendous strength—bit deep, carving a trench in its limb. It flinched, then the team was on it.

Cedric’s spear, bleeding holy power, jabbed its side.

Theresa’s cuts slashed its other arm to ribbons.

Grimloch took a massive bite from its flank.

It howled and flailed.

And Claygon?

The golem’s war-spear streaked toward its shoulder, it writhed, trying to flee as the blow carved deep into his torso. Claygon then cocked a stone fist back, swinging it with full force.

The hyena-headed demon’s eyes slammed shut in reflex.

A terrible crunch followed as Claygon’s fist flattened its snout like a bellows… turning the monster’s head to pulp.

“Two down!” Cedric shouted. “We’ve got ‘em on their back foot, keep on ‘em!”

Grimloch and Brutus roared, diving into a clot of demons. Claygon, Khalik, Thundar, Isolde and Drestra fired punishing magic into scattered schools of agwiagma floating high in the chamber, and at crossbow-wielding fiends.

Theresa and Hart drew their bows, sharp eyes scanning the room for demons gathering magic. The instant they caught sight of capering of pazuzites, or the glow of crimson lightning, they loosed their arrows, skewering threats before magics could be brought to bear.

And Alex conjured monsters, drawing even more power from the aeld staff. This was not the time to hold back.

‘Gotta keep up our momentum.’ He thought, guiding his horde of Wizard’s Hands and forceballs through the room, disrupting the enemy.

His attention turned to the centre of the chamber where the lone surviving son of Ikharrash stood—his mouth agape—three towering thrones behind him.

If they acted quickly, they could finish the battle before it really started.

‘This is easy,’ Alex thought. ‘…almost too easy.’