Mark of the Fool
Chapter 529: To Rip and Tear...Until it is Done

The Mark screamed, battering his thoughts with every failure he’d ever had.

But, it wasn’t the only one screaming.

Fuelled by rage, Alex Roth yanked the wire free, tossing it aside as Yantrahpretaye’s shrill cry echoed through the iron compartment he’d teleported into.

“That’s right,” he growled, seizing a gear inside the monster’s core, and with a surge of power, ripped it from its axle. “Go on, scream! Now it’s your turn to scream!”

Alex’s head pounded, but he grabbed pipes. He grabbed wires. He grabbed gears.

He yanked on parts he could not even name.

And—one by one—he tore them away.

The Mark poured its displeasure into him, hammering him until his eyes burned, screaming at him to stop. Soon, he was almost blind as failure after failure rampaged through his mind, clouding both his eyesight and will.

So, he felt around, using his hands, grabbing any wire his fingers touched, dragging it out. With every bit of strength and leverage he could muster, he gutted the steel-bodied demon like a fish. Its insides were now a sputtering debris field.

“Stop!” Yantrahpretaye screamed. “Stop! What are you doing?”

“I’m ripping you apart with my bare hands! Better you than us!”

The Mark reacted, Alex felt like his head was splitting. Failures flashed, repeating everything he’d ever done wrong, every mistake he’d ever made. Images appeared in a constant stream, tormenting him, but the metal demon had to be stopped.

Yantrahpretaye channelled mana from his dwindling pool.

Alex couldn’t let him use that magnetism again, especially not after the horror he’d inflicted on Celsus.

Through the Mark’s assault, he hunted for the aeld staff, grabbing it in a trembling hand then channelling its energies, painting the greater demon’s core in mana draining symbols.

The staff’s energies were weakening, but he pushed it for whatever help it could give him. He summoned four ice elementals to surround him.

“Keep it cool in here and freeze whatever starts heating up,” his voice was weak, seeming to echo in his head as he pulled another wire loose.

Yantrahpretaye’s cries grew panicked.

The temperature in the demon’s belly began to rise, but a shot of icy power stopped it, pushing it down. The greater demon’s ebbing mana could do nothing to raise it.

Alex heard a worried voice calling to him.

‘Father!Father where…are you?’ Claygon cried.

‘I’m inside this demon’s belly,’ he thought. ‘Can you move?’

‘Yes…now I can!’

‘Good. Do me a favour and rip his other arm off.’

‘Right away…father!” Claygon’s voice thrummed with anger.

The young wizard yanked on another wire, the demon’s gut swung open and Alex dragged himself up, making his way to the demon’s chest. Metal scraped metal as Yantrahpretaye’s claws raked his lower gut, reaching for Alex, but the Fool was far from his reach.

Suddenly, stone crunched steel.

Two of Claygon’s hands wrapped around Yantrahpretaye’s arm.

Then pulled.

The fiend’s elbow separated, severing the joint in half.

The demon howled, but the sound was weaker; Alex ripped at its insides, the Mark punished him, the images sped up to a dizzying rate. The young wizard had to keep going, he had a shot at stopping him, no matter what it cost. Nausea gripped him, he slammed his eyes shut, dry-heaving. His arms were shaking, but they still stripped Yantrahpretaye’s insides bare. The demon was hissing, it was shuddering. The odour of rust filled the air, reaching Alex’s nostrils even through the Mark’s brutal onslaught. Then, like a tower falling, the greater demon reeled, toppling to the ground.

With a high pitched whistle, steam escaped its core, hissing softly until it stilled.

Abruptly, the Mark’s interference stopped: after all, Alex had no reason to keep attacking the demon…it was dead. Exhausted, and with his head throbbing, Alex slid from within Yantrahpretaye’s chest, and collapsed on Kaz-Mowang’s palace floor, his breath ragged. At least, he could see again.

He trembled: he was burnt, blood leaked from the wound in his side, every breath hurt, the skin on his hands was in shreds. Machine-grease covered the ruins of his jester’s costume, it was torn in patches.

But, their opponent was dead.

And he wasn’t.

He sat up slowly, scowling at the horde of demons still filling the hall.

Their numbers were fewer, and their assault had paused; they gaped at him—he was drenched in Yantrahpretaye’s black life blood—as he glared at them from beside the ruins of one of their great masters.

Alex licked at oil running down the corner of his mouth, spitting it on Yantrahpretaye’s mangled corpse.

Then he stood and cracked his neck, taking a step toward the demons.

They backed away.

He took another step. An explosion rocked the palace and—for a moment—it seemed like his footfall was the cause.

And that was enough.

Their nerve snapped like a burning thread, and they turned, shrieking and clawing at each other, pushing their brethren aside to escape the Troupe of the Gargoyle. The horde scattered down side hallways, mania spiking, driving their panic, leaving the Troupe alone with the ruins of dead demons…and their own dead ally.

Blood trickled from a wound on Guntile’s head as she limped toward Celsus’ body. “Agh, poor Celsus. You fought hard to the end. I wish you could have had a better deat—”

Another explosion shook the hall, this one more intense than the last.

Alex and his companions fought to keep their feet, swaying to stay upright.

They had all been through a hard fight, and it showed.

Scratches ran along Ezerak’s torso, and a claw wound gaped open just below his throat.

Ripp was bleeding from a cut on one of his long ears and he had a stab wound in his side, which he was carefully wrapping. Claygon had scratches all through his stone surface, and was still partly coated in iron.

Thundar’s fur was matted with blood—the red was his, the black was the demons’—his mace was gripped in one hand.

Alex nodded to him. “You okay?”

“Am now,” Thundar grunted. “Nearly lost my life twice in just heartbeats. That was bad. But never mind all that.” He frowned, his eyes falling on Alex’s shoulder. “You killed that demon, wait…did you teleport?”

“Yeah,” Alex groaned. “Something’s changed, and I need answers.” He patted the satchel. “But we don’t have time to talk about that now. We’re in rough shape and we need to get out of here or we’re all gonna die. Hell, I’d be dead if it wasn’t for…shit, where’s Kyembe?”

Alex turned, looking for the mercenary who’d saved his life.

The man was on the ground, wounded and shaking, dead demons and rubble partially covering him. One of his hands glowed with golden light and was pressed to his chest.

“I…live…” The Spirit Killer choked out, his grin was more grimace than smile. “Though…that might change…momentarily. Still…our enemy lies dead. And that is good. That is good.”

“And you’re not dying with him,” Alex looked at Claygon. “Claygon, could you pick up Kyembe…and maybe get Celsus’ body? He doesn’t deserve to have his final resting place be down here in the hells. He should come back with us.”

“Yes…father.” The golem started to turn away.

“Hold on, I need something from you.” Alex flew to him, reached into his satchel and took out a singlechaos bomb.

“Alright, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll get us out of here: the Planar Doorway spell has a range of about a hair over a thousand feet. I can get us back to the Outer Labyrinths.

“Are you sure?” Thundar blinked. “That’s…that’s a big distance and there’s a lot of us. How many of us can you take at a time?”

“Enough,” Alex said. “I’ll run mana regeneration to keep my mana flowing. I will get us out of here. Now.”

He looked at the wounded Kyembe and Claygon. The Spirit Killer was in a bad way, but his wounds were beginning to heal. He looked better. “Guntile, Claygon, Ripp and Ezerak you hold the fort for a minute. I’ll take Thundar out first and be right back.”

“You sure?” Thundar asked. “I—”

Alex placed a hand on the minotaur’s shoulder and—spoke the words of power—casting Planar Doorway. The Mark protested and—still feeling residual effects from its earlier onslaught—he nearly dropped to his knees.

But the power inside him pushed back, combining with his will, getting him through the spell array.

Remembering a hall near the front of the palace, he cast himself and Thundar through the planes, materialising in the deserted hallway.

“Holy hell,” Thundar murmured. “This is incredible.”

“It’ll be more incredible when we’re out of here.”

Uttering another incantation, Alex teleported them deep into the gardens, then again into the sky above Kaz-Mowang’s maze.

And—for the first time—they witnessed the destruction that Baelin’s cabal had brought to Jaretha.

“By my ancestors,” the minotaur swore, dancing flame reflected in his eyes.

Below them, Jaretha burned, roiling in utter chaos.

In the distance, a dragon—bigger than any mountain he’d ever seen—battled a horde of demonic titans. Demonic titans that were dwarfed by their opponent; the great wyrm’s wings blazed as he swatted his foes like flies, searing them, knocking them blocks away.

His maw spat magic with the power to unmake things, even from this distance.

Beyond the dragon, was a—much smaller—creature that hurt the eyes to look upon for too long. Alex made out tentacles that looked more like strings from where he and Thundar were; they were lashing out, flaying the creature’s opponents.

He couldn't see anyone else, but he could feel them: Baelin’s towering power, mana surging from thousands of lesser mages.

“Yeeeeah, maybe let’s not go anywhere near there.” Thundar wisely suggested.

“Agreed. Not for all the magic in the world.” Alex turned away from the war. “Let’s keep going.”

Quietly, the two wizards teleported again and again, climbing higher into the skies of Jaretha. They closed on the city walls, unnoticed; all eyes were on the apocalyptic battle being fought deeper in the city. Alex doubted anyone would be paying any attention to two more wounded mortals desperately trying to escape the chaos.

And so he continued casting Planar Doorway, each spell drawing enormous mana, but his pool was deep and already regenerating.

He would have more than enough to get everyone to the edge of the maze. Or…at least that’s what he hoped.

“There it is!” Thundar cried.

“Just a little more,” Alex said.

Concentrating, he continued teleporting them through the sky until—at last— they reached a quiet edge of the maze. From within the labyrinth came sounds of screaming and wailing: the citizens of the demon city were retreating through the maze in a panic.

But, at least for now, the spot he and Thundar had reached was free of traffic.

“I'll be back in a flash,” Alex said. “I wanted to get you out of there; no way I’m letting what happened to Celsus’ happen to you. Next, I’ll bring Claygon. With his size, I don’t think I'd be able to bring more than him and Kyembe.”

“You shouldn’t worry about me so much,” Thundar grunted.

“I have to,” Alex shook his head, remembering a ruined, armoured body. “Look what happened to Celsus. One wrong move, and that could have been you or me. If Isolde and Khalik had been down here, it could have been one of them.”

“But it wasn’t.” Thundar looked at him sternly. “ Think about the bad shit later. Right now? Our allies need out.”

“Yeah,” Alex said. “You’re right.”

With a deep breath, he cast Planar Doorway again.

On the trip back, he began to feel the strain of his mana pool draining, but he triggered Hsieku’s technique, pouring mana from his fibres. “You’re not failing yet,” he told himself, pushing on.

As he’d told Thundar, he brought Claygon and Kyembe next, teleporting them through Jaretha and out to the edge of the maze.

He went back for Guntile, Ripp, Ezerak, and Celsus’ body on the last trip.

But he wasn’t about to leave Kaz-Mowang’s palace without leaving him a parting ‘gift’.

He deserved a big surprise.

“Ripp,” Alex handed the bomb to the swiftling. “Could you turn this dial for me, it’ll activate this messenger construct? Then, point it down the hallway and let it go. The second you release it, we leave.”

Ripp looked at the device like he was looking at a live cobra. “What is it?”

“An explosive,” Alex said. “A nice powerful one. So, don’t forget, point it toward the hall.”

“Will do, boss.” The swiftling took the device gingerly, wound it up, then released it.

Spreading its wings, the construct flew away, carrying the chaos bomb through the hallway.

Alex cast Planar Doorway, teleporting his team from the passage.

He teleported them out of the palace and into the sky, recasting his spell repeatedly. The Mark’s interference was as fierce as the power within him was comforting, but he had no time to slow, at any second…

The explosion ripped the air.

A terrible blast echoed through a vast wing of Kaz-Mowang’s palace, immolating it in flame, chaos, and pure power. Solid stone crumbled to dust. Precious gold liquified.

The fire breathed, expanding through the palace grounds.

“That’s quite the blast,” Guntile murmured, “Too bad my stones can’t do that.”

“I hope that arrogant bastard enjoys rubble,” Alex said. “Let him worry about the mess while we get away.”

With those words, he teleported his companions over the wall and out of the city.

Behind them, the apocalypse continued.

His thoughts were elsewhere.

He was tired of waiting.

As soon as he got the chance, he would examine the Traveller’s artefact: getting his hands on it had been brutal, nearly costing all their lives.

But now, he had it, and it was time for some answers.