Mark of the Fool

“Gather around fine folk, and let me tell you a marvelous tale on this fine evening!” the bard called to patrons across the tavern.

He was a tubby man, his balding scalp was barely hidden by a hasty comb-over peeking from a large floppy hat with feathers through its band. His clothes were as brightly coloured as a peacock, though his face was rather plain; he wore a brilliant smile awash with sparkling white teeth.

Iron sconces and flickering candelabras bathed him in the warmth of their dancing golden light.

He strummed a lyre and hummed a jaunty tune as eyes—some sceptical and some already interested—turned to him.

“And what tale would this be?” Someone jeered from a nearby table. “Not another silly comedy, is it? I don't want to hear another tale of drunken sailors: you've told one of those every night for the past week!”

“Well, if you've been drinking here every night this week and heard my tales, then maybe you have more in common with those drunken sailors than you’d care to admit!” The bard called, strumming his lyre.

A chorus of laughter erupted across the tavern. The heckler’s face turned beet red.

“Now that’s out-of-the-way, why don't we get to what I want to tell you about on this fine evening. My tale isn’t about drunken sailors…nor is it one about a single scoundrel, wizard, or warrior…and yet, I’d have to say it's about all three of those very sorts of folk all rolled into one. Today, my tale is of a Fool…and a Traveller.”

All murmuring died away. The legs of a rickety table in the back of the room began creaking as folk seated around it propped their forearms and elbows on top, leaning forward in anticipation of the bard’s tale. Some of these young folk were hidden in the shadow of an alcove, watching the storyteller intently.

“So, before I begin in earnest, there's something we need to clear up first: the world’s always changing,” He began strumming his lyre as though accompanying an ancient text he was reciting from. “It’s not an uncommon thing, the world changing, that is. It’s tempting for folk to view the wide world like it’s a static thing like rock, only changing through great moments recorded in books. Or sung about by bards like me.”

He smiled, strumming his lyre. “Great moments from some grand discovery.”

He strummed his lyre. “A realm-shattering war.”

He strummed his lyre. “A new age of magic. These are what folk think of when they talk about what changes the world!”

He waggled his finger, clicking his tongue. “The truth—and wise-folk know this well—is that the world is no great lump of unchanging rock. It’s all a’flux, complete with tiny little changes that make it different from moment to moment. Yes, wise-folk know this! But truly wise-folk—” He pointed to himself. “—such as yours truly, know even more. They know that the little events are tied to, and often herald the big ones. So, let's look at one of those heralding little events shall we? Let’s look at the birth and life of a man named Alex Roth.”

His strumming grew more rhythmic. “As far as most folk can tell, he was born in a backwater named Alric, which is in a slightly bigger backwater named Thameland. In his early life, tragedy found the youngster when a hungry fire claimed his fine parents, and since toil was no stranger to those fine folk in Alric, the young lad later found work assisting a cantankerous baker with his baking. I’ll emphasise the point again, life spent toiling was no stranger to the folk of Alric since they were ordinary, salt of the earth types. Yet, the young Alex was somewhat different; he had mana, and he longed to be a wizard. But, as life is inclined to do at times, it ignores a person’s longings, and in this case, a specific event proved that, heralding, something much bigger.”

The bard smiled, pausing both his strumming and his story to take in the reaction of his audience. They were hanging on his every word.

He knew he had them.

The lyre strummed. “He was Marked as a Fool by his god, and was destined to fight and die in a war that Thameland fought—as a regular custom—against a monster called the Ravager…” He paused. “Or was it the Ravener? Yes, that must be it. Certainly can't be the Rampager, or I would've remembered that. In any case, he decided—instead of fighting and dying in this war—to come here to our lovely city of Generasi, and become a wizard! What a fine show of willpower and determination! No doubt most of you have heard his name by now? He was a hero at Oreca’s Fall! He saved the good ship, the Red Siren, from destruction at sea! He's made magical discoveries, and his bakeries fill many of our bellies every morning. But that’s only part of the story, isn't it?”

He peered into the audience, then waggled his finger again. “What’s this I’m seeing? Some of you good folk of Generasi—naturally mistrustful of deities—wearing a holy symbol around your necks! Yes, there it is, the lantern! The Sainted Traveller’s symbol!”

His strumming grew more frenzied. “An ancient saint from an ancient land, a kind demigoddess here to lend a hand! Hardly a day goes by that you don't hear of her miracles, kind deeds done for you and me, that melt the heart of even we jaded Generasians! Some say, they see her, some say, they simply hear of her deeds. But, I will tell you a story of how the Fool and her spirit saved an entire flotilla of ships from a kraken’s wrath!”

The bard then spun his tale—completely fictional—about how Alex and the Traveller had rescued a fleet of sailing ships, transporting the passengers to safety. He told of the Traveller’s power and kindness, and of the Fool’s cleverness and strength.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Eight of the Fool’s companions were given special mention: four Heroes of Thameland, a deadly huntress, a powerful wizard from the south, a scholarly wizard from the Rhinean Empire, and a resourceful and loyal minotaur mage.

The bard had no idea that some of those he’d just mentioned were in fact part of his audience.

At that table in the back, hidden by the shadowy alcove, sat Theresa, Grimloch, and Alex’s cabal.

Their meals were already eaten.

“Well, that's a pretty wild tale,” Thundar said lightly. “Do any of you remember fighting a kraken?”

“No. Too bad. They're good eating.” Grimloch licked his teeth. “We should find one when we have time to go hunting.”

“You can be my guest,” Thundar said dryly. “Still, it's wild to me that they're making up stories about us.”

“That is not a bad thing.” Prince Khalik hoisted his tankard, the powerful young man watching the bard. “Alex’s name is spreading, and so is that of the Traveller. As more people acknowledge Hannah, her power will grow.”

“We could use that,” Isolde sipped her wine, puffy bags beneath the young noblewoman's eyes. “We could use all of the help we can get.”

“Things not going great with you-know-who’s notes?” Thundar asked.

“Actually, we have made progress: Professor Jules and I,” Isolde said. “We have a few strong hypotheses as to how to end the menace forever. Of course, we cannot exactly experiment…but we can start narrowing things down through mathematical simulation.”

“We still need to find it,” Theresa said darkly. “Alex told me something this morning…well, actually, he told Claygon, who told me. He said it was possible that you-know-who might've hidden a message inside that room where he watched Thameland from, the one with all the moving images in it.”

“An interesting idea,” Isolde said. “We have had teams of wizards examine that room…and they have found nothing new. Of course with Alex's gifts, especially now that they have been…enhanced…he might be able to find something where others could not.”

“I’m real glad things worked out for him, but it’s too bad we can't see him for the time being,” Thundar said. “I think he’d get a kick outta this, hearing his name spreading…actually, I think he’d be happier to hear Hannah’s name spreading.”

“That’s true,” Theresa said.

“When will he challenge those fiends that hunt him?” Khalik asked. “If they are defeated, then we will see him sooner than later.”

The huntress gave the cabal a tense look. “According to what he told Claygon? Today or tomorrow.”

“Truly?” Khalik sputtered. “Is there any way that we can go and help him? I owe this hidden church as well, and I would not see him facing enemies alone.”

“Thankfully, he isn't alone,” Theresa said. “But I wish I could be there too.”

“Then, why don't we—” Thundar started.

“We all have tasks to do, we have other things that need taking care of to help him,” Theresa said. “Thundar, you and Khalik have to keep training and working with the Heroes. Isolde, you have to keep researching, and Grimloch and I have to keep hunting for leads to find the Ravener.”

“You're right, of course,” Khalik said. “Though, it is still frustrating.”

“We need to make preparations, because any battle against the Ravener will be for keeps, and when it comes, everything we’ve been doing will count.” Theresa said. “Alex is getting ready, and what we’re all doing will help with that.”

Her attention was now only partly on the bard’s tale, the huntress was thinking about returning to Uldar’s sanctum with Grimloch and Brutus. She hoped they’d find a lead this time.

Her thoughts went to the Traveller, asking her to bring Alex through his battle against the secret church, and keep him safe from a repeat of what happened when they were ambushed.

“I hope you're ready,” she whispered.

Far from Generasi, where a bard spun a fictional tale of the Fool of Thameland’s battles, Alexander Roth prepared for a real one.

If the bard had heard of it, he’d be salivating at the idea of a new and glorious tale in the Fool’s chronicle…though he would be confused by something.

The Fool of Thameland was no more.

The General of Thameland had returned.

Gone were the restrictions on spellcraft, combat, and divinity. Gone was the grinning jester’s face on Alex’s right shoulder, now replaced by a glowing sword—its pommel in the shape of a crown—piercing a scroll.

Gone where his limits.

The cleanly shaven, though long haired, young wizard floated, cross-legged in the middle of a room within the sanctum of a long dead Fool of Thameland: Kelda of Clan McCallum.

Alex was barely recognisable now. Gone was the gangly young man who’d been Marked in Alric. His frame was now solid and muscular, capable of overturning a farm wagon by pure strength alone. His breathing came easy, even, and his body moved as gracefully as a selachar’s moving through the Spear and Oar dance. His staff lay across his thighs, longer than it had been before, its upper third remained wrapped in cloth.

Though his body language spoke of a state of complete peace, his lips moved constantly, as the occasional twitch rippled across his form.

He was preparing, casting spells in a stream, all the while performing his meditation techniques. Not that long ago, he would struggle to cast a single spell, now the General could cast spells with the twitch of a brow.

Forceballs, Wizard’s Hands, protective spells appeared and disappeared around him.

He summoned monsters in a single breath, then dismissed them with a twitch of a brow. He’d call creatures from across the planes, then have them perform deeds as he watched in approval: Astral engeli drew blazing swords, sweeping the burning blades through the air; elder air elementals would blow flensing winds over the stones of the sanctum, while elder earth elements swam through stone floors, then rose and crashed their limbs together.

Beings that could raze entire towns to the ground, or destroy entire battalions, werehis to call, his to dismiss, until he was ready to call them again.

He would detonate fireballs around the room, then conjure protective spells around himself. He peppered the walls with force missiles, each enhanced with deadly modifications to their spell arrays. He practised as he’d never been able to before, feeling ready.

At last, his eyes opened, his gaze fixed on a cube of iron sitting below him. He levelled a finger at it, imagining it was the First Apostle.

He spoke a single syllable.

And cast a sixth-tier spell: disintegration.

The spell struck the cube, blasting it to dust.

Alexander Roth nodded to himself.

“Are you ready?” a deep voice said.

Stepping through a portal into the room, were his two companions.

First came Birger, the ancient firbolg’s weight braced against his crutch. He was followed by Bjorgrund. The young giant’s torso was wrapped in the archaic breastplate that once belonged to Uldar, and in his hand, the immense axe forged for and by the god himself.

On his chest, his red rune burned as though it had come to life.

Alex looked at his two companions, they’d accompanied him through all the months of searching for the sanctum. They had been there when he’d freed himself from the Fool.

They’d vowed to be there when they freed each other from those who were hunting them.

“I'm ready,” Alex said. “Are you?”

Birger and Bjorgrund nodded.

Alex clutched his staff.

Once he was free from the church hunting him, he could examine Uldar’s sanctum to see if he was right: to see if the god had hidden a message in his viewing room.

“Birger, Bjorgrund,” the General of Thameland said. “Let's lure the enemy.”