Mark of the Fool 8: A Progression Fantasy Epic, page 1
MARK OF THE FOOL 8
©2024 J.M. CLARKE
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Also by J.M. Clarke
Mark of the Fool
Book One
Book Two
Book Three
Book Four
Book Five
Book Six
Book Seven
Book Eight
Book Nine
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Contents
1. The Wail for the Dead
2. A Parent
3. Weep Not For Me
4. The Waiting Meal
5. Windows into a Lower World
6. The Poisonous Ichor
7. The Dark beneath the Throne
8. Are You With Us?
9. The Call of the North
10. The Hero, Gabrian
11. An Ominous Providence
12. The Grieving Guardian
13. The Alchemist and the Fool
14. The Secrets of the Stars
15. Claygon’s Path
16. Going for Distance and a Memorial Creation
17. Convergent Development
18. The Slap
19. The Temple of Death
20. Five Birthdays and a Funeral
21. Painted Memories
22. The Castle of Wonders
23. An Open Seat
24. An Exciting Day
25. The Silent Crew and the New Deal
26. The Name ‘Roth’
27. Daily Teleportation
28. Fifth
29. Greed
30. Limits
31. The Barred Gate of Spellcraft
32. The Message
33. A Devilish Deserter and Coward
34. The Fool’s Story
35. Paranoia
36. Teleportation Practice and the Arrival at Greymoor
37. Professor Jules’ Confrontation
38. Secrets in Luthering
39. Mother Charity
40. Shoulders that Bear
41. Desiring a Confrontation
42. The Cabal’s Gathering with the Fool
43. The Cabal’s Fellowship
44. The Storm before the Storm
45. The Fool and the Siren against the Storm
46. The Siren’s Gratitude
47. The First Battle for the Fool
48. An Argument for an Audience
49. The Hall of Roth’s Fate
50. The Chamber at the Center of Creation
51. The Ruling Council of Generasi
52. Citizen Roth
53. A Mixed Taste
54. Rockmoot
55. The Fool and the King
56. Heroes, Devils, and a King
57. Harmony
58. The State of the Empire and Journey’s Preparations
59. Kymiland from the Sky
60. The Greasy “Merchant”
61. The Treacherous Trading Post
62. A Lesson on Terminal Velocity… and Lying
63. Prototypes and Time
64. Build me a Worthy Army
65. The Ultimate Technique of Mana Regeneration
66. Unnatural Power in the Most Natural Way
67. Firbolgs in the Forest
68. The Giant’s Cottage
69. A Carving Knife Through Bark
70. Runed Seekers
71. The Marked, the Runed, and the Bloody
72. Heading off the Problem
73. The Coin of Silent Friends
74. Giants’ Confrontation
75. The March
76. Operating on the Soul
77. Sorkovo
Thank you for reading Mark of the Fool 8
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Chapter 1
The Wail for the Dead
There was an ancient saying in the realm of Thameland, one that had largely fallen away as the centuries wore on.
A simple phrase of gratitude, spoken during harvests, weddings, and births: Our plenty comes from Uldar.
For thousands of years, the phrase was spoken in churches, fields, and by hearths. Every Sigmus. Every harvest moon.
Our plenty comes from Uldar.
Those words were ingrained in the very stones of Thameland and spoken even as the language of the land transformed, influenced by its peoples’ contact with those beyond the sea.
But time is a powerful thing and—with enough of it passing—even stone can turn to dust. Centuries passed in the realm, with more folk giving gratitude to Uldar in more subtle ways. Those words were gradually said less. Some began forgetting to thank Uldar, instead giving credit and gratitude to their own hard work and cleverness.
So the words were heard less.
Eventually, other phrases and expressions replaced them until there was no corner of Thameland where they were ever spoken or heard.
Save one.
In this one place, the words of gratitude to Uldar were heard daily.
Without end.
In a hidden valley—more of a crater, really—there stood an escarpment called Uldar’s Rise, and within its stone walls, a never-ending song could be heard. The song’s voices changed with time, but its words never did.
In its refrain, the words, Our plenty comes from Uldar, lived on, sung with passion for thousands of years.
Not once did it ever stop echoing through the rock of Uldar’s Rise, not since the god himself had ascended from the top of the escarpment in ancient days.
Not once did the song stop…
…until now, until tonight.
Now the only sounds in Uldar’s Rise came from the rain and a distant wailing echoing across the valley. The cry was heavy with pain. Full of grief. Filled with sorrow.
To any passing fae slipping through the tall grasses, such screams were not unexpected; after all, the battle that had been fought a short while ago was the kind that birthed a thousand widows.
Grief, pain, and sorrow were never far behind such battles.
Where there had once been a peaceful, idyllic village, now there was only a ruin of melted rock, and blackened earth. Fields and boulevards that once hosted children playing were now soaked with blackened blood.
Bodies lay on wet earth, some collected and covered with shrouds, while others were simply left to rot on the soggy ground. A massive slab of Uldar’s Rise was gone, revealing a blackened, ragged hole of melted stone broad enough for a dragon to fly through.
No priests or holy servants were about.
The scent of death hung in the air.
And the wailing continued.
Floating just above the top of Uldar’s Rise was a portal, opening to the bottom of an enormous staircase. Running up the walls of these white stairs were murals and statues of the god, Uldar, etched in the stone, silent for thousands of years.
Much like Uldar’s Rise itself, the songs of Uldar—sung for millennia—had echoed through this divine sanctum.
But, for the first time in untold centuries, the song was interrupted, joining with a sound of heart-wrenching grief, then ending.
The screams spread down the staircase, echoing from a wide open set of double doors leading to a throne room.
And within this chamber was a scene that would make any priest of Uldar lose their hold on reason. A large group, made up of folk native to Thameland and beyond, were gathered by the massive doorway.
Most were Watchers of Roal, warriors from the university who stood guard, watching for threats from the room before them, and the long stairway below them.
Grimloch, the sharkman, stared at the throne with doll-like black eyes, his face mostly impassive, as he muttered one barely audible phrase beneath his breath repeatedly, “Blood in the water.”
Prince Khalik Behr-Medr, the second prince of Tekezash, appeared dumbs
Thundar’s, son of Gulbiff, shoulders sagged, his tall, muscular frame gone slack. His mouth would open and close without a single sound escaping it, his eyes unfocused. Lady Isolde von Anmut gripped her dagger so tightly, her leather gloves creaked upon its hilt. Her attendants, Hogarth and Svenia, prayed to the elements in hushed tones.
Tyris Goldtooth’s jaw had dropped, her eyes wide and her face pale. The confident battlemage looked as though she was ready to faint, slipping down from the back of her enormous familiar, Vesuvius. The vulcanchelone—volcanic tortoise, as they were called in the south—gave a low groan of concern for his mistress.
Though his link with her granted him a sharper mind, he couldn’t grasp the gravity of what lay before them, and perhaps, that was for the better.
Theresa Lu certainly could, though a part of her wished she couldn’t.
The young woman—Thameish by birth—understood all too well the full gravity of what they were seeing. “Traveller protect us all…” she murmured, as Brutus, her blood-bonded cerberus, nuzzled her shoulder, whimpering.
“Traveller… protect us…” rumbled Claygon the iron golem, newly evolved in a bombardment of arcane fire. “May we… protect ourselves…”
“Yeah… Traveller protect us is right,” said Hart Redfletcher, his low voice cracking. The giant of a man—Champion of Uldar—who had faced down beasts, wizards, demons, and a Hero with a brave and steady heart, now shrank back like a frightened child at the sight.
Drestra of Crymlyn Swamp, the Sage of Uldar, towered over all the others in her true form, that of a red dragon. Yet—despite her reptilian features—her expression of shock was clear, as was the touch of relief playing in her eyes.
Cedric of Clan Duncan, the Chosen of Uldar, looked at the throne with bulging eyes that appeared ready to roll from his head. He was shaken, and stepped away from collapsing to the ground.
“—ck!” Alex finished. The Fool of Uldar had dropped to one knee as his mind recoiled.
Ahead of him, the fading spirit of Carey London—whose life was lost in the Battle of Uldar’s Rise—floated, held to the physical world by the power of St. Hannah Kim, the Traveller. Carey’s soul was dimming, wanting to leave this plane for its rightful place in the after-world, but she fought to remain a little longer to help her friends. Her translucent features were stricken with horror.
Her words came soft, quiet. “How long… how long did we pray to this? Now I know why he was silent…”
Shock and horror had washed through the group, but none felt the weight of the mystifying revelation more than St. Merzhin, the Saint of Uldar.
The young man crouched on his hands and knees, heaving, having become violently ill. He spewed on the golden carpet he knelt upon, sweat beading on his slight frame, turning his skin cold and clammy as he shook like a leaf in the wind.
“No… no… no…” was all he said, over and over again, trying to make sense of what was before him: for what was frozen on the opposite side of the throne room seemed unreal, like a bad dream he couldn’t wake from.
Only a handful of mortals had ever laid eyes on a sight such as this.
A sight Merzhin wished he could unsee.
The sight of a god.
A dead god.
His god.
The Thameish god.
There was no denying Uldar—God and protector of Thameland—was dead. From a distance, one might have thought he was simply resting on his throne. After all, there was no stench of rot. No flies or vermin.
His flesh—though pale—looked healthier than that of a hearty mortal man. There were no blemishes or scars… save for the wound. For it was this ugly, gaping thing that had eaten away at Uldar’s side and revealed the truth.
Jagged, as though a ragged spear had pierced the god’s body, impaling him deep inside, but rather than red blood spilling on his white throne, black ichor stained his robes. The wound had festered, its edges necrosed as though…
“Poison,” Theresa murmured. “His wound looks like it was poisoned…”
“What in all bleedin’ hells could poison a bloody god?” Cedric muttered. “Don’t think no hemlock or nightshade’s gonna do that bloody trick.”
“This is impossible!” Merzhin screamed. “It’s not possible! How can Uldar be dead? We still receive the power of his divinity! This must be a trick, yes, a tri—”
“It’s not,” Alex muttered. “It is possible.”
“What?” The Saint whirled on him.
“Baelin—a very old and powerful wizard—once told me something,” the Fool said. “He said that… how did he put it?” He called on the Mark, focusing it on the task of remembering Baelin’s exact words:
“Faith is a source of power, and faith can be power in and of itself,” Alex repeated the chancellor’s words, spoken to him in a quiet mountain range on some faraway planet. “It can spawn deities with enough belief in a single concept, religion, or philosophy, but the amount of faith needed is astronomical. Otherwise, every single tribal totem would spawn a deity.”
“What are you talking about?” asked the Saint.
“We were talking about the Traveller becoming a goddess… but the first part’s the important part. You said you felt divinity coming from this room, right?” Alex asked.
Merzhin trembled, sniffling back tears. “Yes?”
“Where is it coming from?” Alex asked. “Where exactly?”
“From Uldar of—” Merzhin paused, squinting at the dead god. “No… now that I think of it… no! No! It’s not coming from Uldar.” He looked around the room. “It’s just… filling the space. The whole room is filled with the power of faith. And it’s all focused… on the throne,” He blinked in astonishment. “Yes, the divinity is actually coming from the throne!”
“That makes sense,” Khalik mused.
All eyes turned to him.
“What do you mean?” Carey asked, her voice quieter. She floated down slowly, hovering beside Merzhin, looking at him with complete sadness.
“Think of this: your people have continued praying to Uldar for thousands of years. Many thousands of years. Such a concentration of faith is power, and that power had to go somewhere. Except Uldar himself was dead… so who were you actually praying to? In reality, you were praying to the divine, and your faith gathered here, in the ultimate symbol of that faith: in Uldar’s throne room, the place where his body rests.”
“That sounds correct to me,” Isolde noted. “My people worship the elements, but our faith concentrates in our sacred elemental mountains.”
“And this is why Uldar stopped helping us,” Carey said. “Our faith was there to empower our priests, but Uldar never reached out to us again, because he was dead.”
“But, hold on!” Merzhin cried. “You… Carey… the Traveller is reaching out from the after-world to help you! A-and you!” He pointed at Alex. “You said that this… wizard, talked of faith spawning deities! Then, surely our combined power can resurrect Uldar!”
“It’s not that simple,” Alex said. “The Traveller had a unique magic to her: she could travel anywhere. And I mean anywhere. Her power is probably serving as a conduit, guiding faith in her to the after-world. That faith is transforming her into a goddess.”
“It is,” Carey said. “She’s grown much stronger since you spoke with her, Alex. Soon she should—”
“This can’t be. How could none of us know?” Merzhin wept. “How… our life… our people… all to help Uldar… all that silence! He was supposed to speak in mysterious ways! How could no one know about this!”
“Priests can draw power even from a dead demigod for a time,” Watcher Hill said. “Many lost their lives battling Oreca’s remaining priests after his fall.”
“I remember Gemini saying something about that at the opening of the Games this year,” Thundar noted.
“Who’s Oreca?” Merzhin asked.
“She—” Hill started.
“Oh shite! Shite! Shite!” Cedric suddenly cried, going ghost white. “Damn it all!”
“What?” Hart and Drestra asked.
“Bloody hells, it was right there!” Cedric cursed. “Hart! Drestra! Think o’ this. Someone knew that Uldar was dead!”
“What?” Hart asked. “Who… oh. Oh!”
