Mark of the Fool

Hart’s fist met a bone-charger’s skull.

It wasn’t his best punch.

And apart from the gauntlet upon his hand, it was the sole weapon he’d used on the monster.

Yet, it shattered the rock-hard skull as though it was the shell of a robin’s egg. With a kick to its back, he cracked another bone-charger’s spine as his blade whipped about him, cleaving through a behemoth’s legs.

The Champion laughed like a man possessed, his every movement a blur as he tore across the battlefield. “Yes! Run, you little rats! I’m the monster now!”

And Merzhin could not help but agree.

The Saint watched his fellow Heroes, both impressed and dismayed.

And more than a little suspicious.

‘What happened to you?’ he wondered, watching Drestra split into four illusionary copies, rushing toward the horde of bone-chargers in a dizzying spiral of flying images.

Bone-chargers roared, lunging at the Sage, heads lowered, jaws gnashing, legs churning great sprays of muddy snow. But rather than strike the Hero with full force—crushing her body to paste—they blundered, mistaking an illusion for her, colliding with each other in a tangle of limbs.

The true Drestra flew above the confused pile, fingers curving like claws as she channelled a river of fire down on the beasts. Ravener-spawn bellowed, bursting into flame, burning away in the melting, steaming snow.

“That’s it, Drestra and Hart!” Cedric slammed into a bone-charger, splitting it in half with his morphic weapon, now transformed into a greataxe. One of the creature's claws raked him, but the blow rebounded off invisible armour. Another claw swiped out, scraping his force shield, while a swinging tail was deflected by strange, glowing weapons of force. Each weapon changed shape with every heartbeat. “The rest o’ yous, we got ‘em pinned down! Now Merzhin, finish ‘em off!”

With a roar, mounted knights of Thameland charged swarms of Ravener-spawn, driving their lances forward, piercing tough hide. Beside them rode a fae cavalry unit, swinging swords of glowing silver while mounted on fae steeds. The bodies of knights and fae thrummed with power: layered with powerful body enhancement spells cast by the Sage and Chosen.

Behind them, the priests and their rangers marched—untouched by Ravener-spawn—freely launching arrows or divine miracles into the enemy.

Saint Merzhin shook himself back to his senses, fixing his eyes on his target.

The Heroes and their companions had tracked the horde of monsters to this dungeon, ripped open the dungeon’s side with a devastating blast of earth magic, and flooded into the gaping hole like angry ants.

Now, the dungeon’s chamber lay before them, with only a handful of bone-chargers left to protect the core.

Even the Saint would have to say that it felt good catching the enemy by surprise and tearing their structures apart for a change.

But, now it was time to finish it.

He looked up to the sky, his hands rising in supplication.

“Oh holy Uldar, we thank you for this holy bounty and beseech you. Bring ruin to our enemies, as you did so long ago!”

Above, the steely grey sky began to shake.

Thunder boomed.

Lightning flashed.

Clouds boiled.

Merzhin smiled in holy ecstasy as the divinity of his god flowed through the gateway of his soul. “Yes, my god! I feel You with me!” He turned his eyes down to the dungeon core and the dwindling horde of monsters desperately defending it.

He levelled a single finger at them.

His high voice boomed over the hills, overlaid with a far deeper roar.

“And He shall smite the wicked and curse them with a serpent’s kiss!”

There was a tearing sound from above.

And the lightning came down.

It struck in the centre of the cluster of Ravener-spawn, flashing through them, freezing them in place as Uldar’s divine power did its terrible work. Then their skin began to shift.

Then boil.

Then explode.

Their blood transformed, bursting from their bodies as a hundred vipers—hissing in rage—and swinging dripping fangs down to pierce the Ravener-spawn. Holy venom burned the creatures, withering them, leaving them as dried out husks.

Even the powerful dungeon core was not spared.

As the serpents’ fangs bit the black orb’s surface, it screamed in anguish, shuddering, crumbling to dust.

In the span of heartbeats, the dungeon had fallen.

“We got ‘em beat!” Cedric cheered. “Dungeon’s dead and not a drop o’our blood spilled!”

The Thameish army roared in triumph, thrusting their weapons toward the now-clearing sky. Priests chanted Uldar’s name. Fae cavalry warriors smirked at the corpses of dead enemies.

Hart pounded his chest.

Drestra was at the core, beginning to gather the dust.

But Merzhin’s heart was not settled.

He cheered too, calling Uldar’s name, but in his mind, the battle replayed. His fellow Heroes were different, changed, fighting better, conjuring new spells and tactics. Hart’s physical transformation was monstrous: he had been a physical paragon before, but now he threw about even the strongest Ravener-spawn like they were nothing more than emaciated rodents.

And so, the Saint wondered.

‘Just what has been going on at the Generasians’ camp?’ he thought. ‘What has happened to the other Heroes?’

“Well, hold down the fort while we’re gone.” Cedric stuffed a mirror into his bag after taming his long red hair. He was crouching in the middle of a bearskin pad, collecting the rest of his belongings. A number of books lay among his things: books the Saint had never seen before.“We’re goin’ t’be out fer two days. Don’t let the Generasians bite ya, Merzhin, an’ be nice to ‘em.” His smile came easily.

The Saint watched the Chosen from the mouth of the muscular young man’s tent, throwing a glance over his shoulder. Behind him, the rest of the camp was packing up, preparing to move out as soon as the Generasians arrived.

His eyes fell on Hart, who—uncharacteristically—was actually grooming his scraggly stubble with a razor blade.

A mix of feelings chased each other within Merzhin’s soul.

“Cedric…have those foreign wizards been doing anything untoward?” he asked gently.

“What’s this?” The Chosen stood, hoisting his pack onto his back. “What’re y’talkin’ about?”

“I can’t argue with the results,” the Saint said slowly. “Uldar would be pleased with how his Heroes have been slaying his enemies.”

“Aye.” Cedric reached to where his morphic weapon lay against the tent pole. The metal melted down from the shape of a greatsword, running onto his hand and taking the form of a gauntlet. “S’been bloody great!” he grinned, his golden tooth glinting in the morning sun. “Been the easiest battles we’ve had against them bloody Ravener-spawn.”

“Yes…” Merzhin agreed. “But…is there a cost? This power—especially what has happened to Hart—it seems unnatural.” He rose to his full, though short, height. “Let us not forget the ‘Folly of Felix’ as told in Uldar’s third gospel: ‘And so the potter came forth unto the crossroads, but it was not fae he called out too, but to the foulest of devils. And he said to the devil—’”

“—give me power, an’ I’ll slay the monstersthat took my son from me, an’ I’ll pay whatever price y’ask for,” Cedric finished. “Th’ local priest taught me that story when I was a wee one, Merzhin. An’ then Felix the potter was granted great power by this devil an’ he killed the Ravener-spawn, he turned int’a demon an’ killed everyone he met. Aye, I know the tale, but what’re y’implyin’, mate? Them wizards’ve been helpin’ us. There’s no deals wit’ devils.”

“At times, devils can come in fair forms,” Merzhin warned. “We know that the devil that appeared to Felix appeared as a friend. But the power—as easily given as it was—came at a terrible price. I…worry that such things are happening to my fellow Heroes. I would not see you undone, Holy Chosen.”

For a moment, Cedric stared at him, and Merzhin thought he might start shouting at him. Instead, the Chosen smiled sadly. “They did some safe—” He paused. “—er, mostly safe wizard shite to Hart.”

“Mostly safe?”

“Aye, well, it’s wizard shite, we ain’t exactly talkin’ about pettin’ cute pups, are we?” Cedric said. “But they’re good ones, down at that big ol’ Research Castle o’ theirs. S’a shame y’can’t come wit’ us, mate. If y’could, y’might see things a tad different. Come on, Merzhin, don’t y’get along wit’ the wizards that come t’help us?”

Merzhin was about to say no.

The stern Watcher of…Roal, that’s what his title was, the one that served as their commander was too standoffish for him. That Tyris Goldtooth was too fiery for him, prone to battlelust that he would call madness.

But there was one.

Carey London of Wrexiff.

He got along with her well enough and—he had to admit—he was looking forward to seeing her again.

The rest, though?

“I do not dislike the wizards,” he said. “But…just be careful, Cedric. Uldar knows if you go to face demons that hide beneath smiling faces.”

“Oh, demons smile less than you’d think,” the Chosen said.

“...what?”

“Nevermind, ya wuda had t’be there.”

“Do you find that Uldar has a strong presence in your daily life, even when you are so immersed in the matters of magic?” the Saint asked Carey, drawing her out of her reverie.

She flinched, looking down from her seat on the edge of Vesuvius’ shell.

The war-column—Thameish soldiers, rangers and knights; fae irregulars and Generasian wizards—marched through a pass between two large rock rises. Tyris sat cross-legged on the front of her familiar’s volcanic shell, and she had been thoughtful of the other wizards, letting them ride the enormous turtle’s shell during the march.

Lost in thought—as she had often been lately—Carey had not heard the Saint as he approached her in the snow. The young woman shook herself.

‘The group was attacked more than half-a-dozen times the last time you came out here, Carey,’ she thought. ‘This is not the time to let your thoughts wander!’

“I’m sorry?” she apologised quickly, a bloom of discomfort rising in her chest. “What did you say, holy Saint?”

Merzhin gave her a crooked, unnatural smile. “I was wondering if the matters of faith lay upon your mind even in a place so full of distractions as your school of wizardry.”

“Oh, well, yes my faith does play through my mind ever so much,” she said, leaving unspoken the questions of faith that plagued her with frightening and growing frequentness. “Uldar is not far from my thoughts.”

“Indeed, that is good.” He nodded vigorously. “It is important to keep his glory close to heart and to mind.”

An awkward silence hung between them as they rode, until it at last dawned on her what was happening. “I do so apologise, but er, are you purposefully trying to make conversation?”

The young man winced. “Oh dear, am I so transparent? I was taught by one of my mentors to be as the mirror, reflecting the thoughts and faith of Uldar’s flock, not as the window. He would be disappointed.”

“Oh, not at all, I do appreciate you speaking to me. It can get terribly lonely at times, when one is constrained by one’s thoughts,” she muttered, saying more than she’d intended.

A flash of recognition lit up Merzhin’s eyes. “True! And I have experienced such things myself, but, take heart. There is a solution.”

“And that is?” Carey asked, fearing she already knew his answer.

“Faith.” he nodded firmly. “Let Uldar fill your heart, and you can know no true loneliness. Let Uldar guide your steps, and you can never truly lose your way. Let Uldar lead your thoughts and you will never be tricked or led astray.”

Tricked or led astray.

A hot wave of anger went through Carey, and she nearly screamed at the Saint. They had all been tricked. They all had been led astray, either by the church or Uldar.

But she bit the words back.

“I shall keep that in mind.” She smiled sweetly, making a show of gripping her holy symbol.

With a final nod of encouragement, Merzhin rode off toward the head of the column.

Carey’s eyes followed. ‘I think I would have liked him a lot more before I knew about the dungeon core’s secrets, even though he means well. Still, hearing that sort of thing…this could be a hellish few days.’

Somewhat later and beyond the material plane, a portal opened in the utter darkness of Tenebrama.