Mark of the Fool
Chapter 627: A Living Legacy

Alex returned to the village after leaving the injured Watchers in the care of a blood mage team, and was met by the aftermath of Drestra’s firstattack against members of the secret church.

She’d dipped into her vast mana pool, combining dragon power with the power of the Sage—and cast an earth spell that had raised a rampart around the strike force and Watcher Hill’s besieged infiltration team. Khalik had cast his own earth spells, providing added cover in the form of merlons—solid projections—that sat atop Drestra’s rampart; spacing them evenly. The rescue force flew to the top of the wall, returning fire with arrows, crossbow bolts, and spells.

Blood mages were already tending the wounded alongside Cedric. The strike force was taking fire from the village ahead, and the wall behind, and—even as the Watchers raised wards to protect their companions—the wounded still multiplied.

The same was true for their adversaries. Neither side was being spared.

Drestra rampaged, using explosive wing beats to soar above the village, strafing it with cones of dragon fire.

Crops burned in her wake. Stone cracked. Iron weathervanes liquefied.

Seated low on her back, Thundar launched beams of force that pierced Uldar’s warriors like javelins.

Isolde hovered in the sky, waving the wand Alex had made her, using it to turn raindrops to mist, then sending balls of lightning through the vapour, electrocuting everyone it touched. Svenia and Hogarth crouched behind merlons, launching arrows in quick succession. The pair had long been outclassed by their mistress in power, but they showed no sign of retreating from these new foes, facing them with grim determination and rapid fire bowstrings.

Vesuvius spouted lava like a fountain, while Tyris launched sheets of ice, magma, and fire, casting devastating spells that Alex had never seen her use before.

“Where’s Carey, you bastards?” she roared, burying her foes in ice and heat. “Bring her out or I’ll kill every last one of you!”

Grimloch and Hart moved forward side by side, veritable juggernauts of physical power, tearing into foes with supernatural strength and skill. The path behind them was littered with broken bodies.

Claygon unleashed beams of fire while swinging his war-spear in wide arcs, cutting down anyone unlucky enough to be in its path. Ahead, Theresa blurred through warriors, the Twinblade flicking out around her, slashing both weapons, and opponents. Brutus had sheathed himself in bone armour, releasing sonic howls that devastated challengers, then tearing apart any left standing with his massive fangs.

Above, blood-draks swarmed the enemy, spraying boiling blood while shredding Uldar’s devoted with fangs that gleamed like polished stone.

Though the strike force was caught in a crossfire, they struck back, hard.

Alex looked over the battle, feeling hopeful, until his eyes fell upon children.

The adults had responded the instant they’d realised they were under attack, taking their positions, reacting as though they’d prepared every day of their lives for this—so when the alarm had sounded, they were ready. Some ran to do battle, others to the village’s children, gathering them in pairs and rushing toward a solid looking iron and wooden gate at the base of the escarpment. Alex could see no more children around, but with his enhanced vision, he saw the terror on the faces of the young ones running to escape.

And in that instant, he felt guilty.

And he understood.

Baelin often talked about wizards being drawn into conflicts of questionable morality. Professor Jules had suggested that wizardry—and much of society—in different ways, had a tinge of what many would call evil permeating within it.

At one time, those notions had felt removed from Alex’s day to day life.

Abstract.

But, now?

A village burned as a dragon set it aflame with a horned warrior astride her back. Monsters and Ravener-spawn rampaged. Wizards rained death.

He felt the heavy weight of guilt in his chest for a moment.

But, only for a moment.

The illusion that these people were defenceless villagers was shattered quickly. Very quickly. Their warriors moved with the same skill and precision of any Watcher of Roal—or perhaps more so—while fighting with the fervour of cornered Ravener-spawn.

They had quickly girded themselves in protective divinities and enhanced their bodies, then laid into other beings—mortal and monster alike—with weapons that blazed with holy light. Drestra’s army of Ravener-spawn was wilting under a hail of divine bolts, arrows and—

Alex heard the loud rumble of heavy wheels and groaning wood coming from the escarpment.

From a hidden parapet near the top of the rise, catapults had been rolled into place—each with prayers to Uldar carved across their frames: abruptly their arms snapped up—launching boulders the size of Claygon.

Stones blazed with blinding, white light as they rocketed toward hordes of Ravener-spawn winging their way through the sky then detonating among them like fireballs. Shrapnel ripped through the monsters, they dropped to the ground in pieces.

The Watchers’ wards protected the strike force from bits of debris, but some found targets, breaking bone and slicing flesh.

Blood mages scrambled, trying to make their way to the mounting wounded.

But their enemies had an edge.

Warriors of Uldar prayed for each other, divine energy auras surrounding them, healing their allies nearby. Foes who’d been brutally wounded and battered in their encounters with Theresa, Grimloch, Hart, Claygon or Brutus, were suddenly able to kip up to their feet, jumping back into battle, wounds gone as though they’d never been.

Alex swallowed.

They were outnumbered, fighting people who were equally skilled, or more so, who held the advantage of being on their own territory, and used divinity as easy as breathing. Only the transcendent powers of each Hero, Claygon, Vesuvius, and—to a lesser degree—Theresa, Grimloch and Brutus were allowing the strike force to hold on.

The young Thameish wizard scowled, muttering to himself.

“I’d give my left arm to have Baelin here right now. Or Kyembe, Ripp and Ezerak,” he whispered.

Even as he acknowledged those words, the scar on his left arm—the one given to him by Burn-Saw—throbbed. ‘I wonder what other scars this battle’s gonna leave me with?’ he thought.

They had to move, and move fast.

Alex teleported, appearing at Watcher Hill’s side.

“How’s your team doing!” he shouted over the explosions.

Before she could answer, a red-faced Cedric growled.

“I got ‘em patched up,” his tone was as hard as rock. “The ones I could save, mind.” The Chosen of Uldar’s face was beet-red with rage.

But Watcher Hill seemed calm. “We can move,” she said. “Where does the Eye-Finder say Carey is at present?”

Alex reached into his satchel, retrieving the device from among his potions.

The third eye looked directly at the escarpment.

“Over there,” he pointed, “but I can’t take us right to her. I don’t have a clear view of where she is. But, I could get us to the balconies.”

“Do it!” Hill cried. “We’ll get in and get out. Hold here until we extract her, we’ll give you the signal…wait…what’s that noise?”

Through the din of battle, the notes of a song drifted through the air.

A song, and the steady rhythm of marching feet.

Alex recognised it; one he hadn’t heard since he’d been in the Cave of the Traveller.

“Priests!” Drestra roared. “A whole army of them are heading this way!”

Cursing, Alex teleported above the rampart, spotting a column of Uldar’s warpriests coming from the escarpment, girded in armour bearing symbols of holy power that blazed with light. Each holy-man held a shield, a two-handed weapon, and a crossbow of divine power.

Their holy symbols sang as they tramped toward the strike force, sanctified light billowing around them. As their auras touched the villagers, wounds healed and mended bodies became filled with supernatural vigour.

In the midst of the priests’ formation, a tall, elderly man with a snow white beard, marched. Divinity blazed around one of his hands and mana the other.

Though he’d never met him before, Alex’s blood ran cold.

The man’s gaze fixed on him.

He spoke.

“The Fool,” he said, and despite the distance, his voice seemed to echo from all sides. “And now the source of this treachery is revealed.”

His column of priests strode past a statue of Uldar.

And another.

Alex suddenly realised how numerous they were.

The statue that the Watchers used for cover was only one of many. They seemed to be everywhere. Dozens. Scores. Maybe more. Towering ones. Small ones.

All were carved from stone, and with such detail, they looked unnervingly life-like. Alex shuddered.

Power gathered around the old priest’s hands. The rain abruptly stopped.

“Defend us from this treachery!” he cried.

A wave of combined divinity and mana blasted from his clasped hands, draping Uldar’s likenesses in power.

Stillness fell over the battlefield, followed by the cracking of stone.

And—as one—every statue of Uldar began moving, stepping from their pedestals, stony faces twisting in divine wrath, fists forming clubs of granite.

“Shit!” Alex teleported to the strike team.

A crash of metal on stone broke the stillness.

The statue of Uldar they’d used as cover was getting to its feet, but Cedric leapt, landing on its torso; his weapon formed agreathammer that began smashing the statue to gravel.

“Hill! Let’s go, We should teleport right now!” Alex cried.

He touched the Watcher, and the remaining infiltration team members touched him.

Alex reached out, focusing on where he was, and where he wanted to be. The Traveller’s power surged inside him.

And then—

“No.”

A low-pitched voice thundered through the valley, sounding like it was birthed in the belly of a dungeon.

And just like that, Alex could no longer feel where he wanted to teleport to. The escarpment shimmered as a ward sprang into being around it.

A man floated from the stone, hands clasped behind his back.

He was clad in white, and wreathed in divine power.

The solitary word he’d spoken reverberated through the village.

“First Apostle!” the warriors of Uldar cried. “First Apostle!”

The man—his black hair contrasting stark white clothing—looked down on the strike force. His eyes rested on Alex. “I have spent many days and nights researching St. Hannah.”

Alex froze.

“What in every bloody hell’s happenin’?” Cedric cried, at long last smashing the statue to dust.

“Even beyond the grave she interferes,” the First Apostle’s voice reached every ear near and far. “I cannot say how yet, but we will learn; even as I speak, I am thinking on the beginnings of countermeasures against her. I’ve spent much time pouring over the research of my predecessors. Understand this, all of you, the ward around our valley has solidified; so neither through her power, nor your own magic will you ever leave here.”

He raised his hands. “Surrender, and I will show you Uldar’s mercy.”

Below him, every holy warrior and priest stopped moving.

They simply stopped.

The statues froze in place.

“What do you say to my offer?” he said. “You cannot leave, so resist us, and things will be worse for you. I would not see the Sage, the Champion and the Chosen killed. That would complicate matters. I would also not see the Fool of Uldar slain, not after he’s finally been recovered.”

Alex set his jaw, noting how he’d been referred to like some object.

Divine light flared around the First Apostle. Cedric winced.

Mana burned within the priest like a star. The wizards recoiled.

“C-cedric?” Alex whispered. “How much divine power is he giving off?”

“Feels like I’m starin’ at the sun. The man’s a monster, probably in more ways than one,” the Chosen of Uldar said. “But we gots t’fight ‘em. We needs to.”

“Agreed,” Hill said.

The First Apostle’s gaze switched from Alex to Cedric. “Holy Chosen, I am deeply disappointed in you. Why would you—the rightful leader of the Heroes—betray your god?”

“Betray my god?” Cedric was incredulous, his rage boiling over. Casting a flight spell on himself, he soared into the air. Alex followed, ready to teleport the Chosen away if things got away from him.

Blood-draks flew at the First Apostle—screeching and hissing—but the man’s eyes never left Cedric. Divine light blazed from his body in an aura, any Ravener-spawn that touched it, erupted in holy flame, smouldering as they plummeted to the ground.

Alex was reminded of Baelin.

Animal panic began to build.

“You’re the one betrayin’ folk! Kidnappin’ Merzhin an’ Carey! Sneakin’ about! Hiding shite about the dungeon cores from people!” Cedric screamed.

Drestra’s voice crackled. “You hide here while we fight and suffer! How righteous is that?”

“Looks pretty bad for you!” Hart shouted. “You’re going against the Heroes of Uldar, that’s treason last I heard!”

“You are the ones embracing treason!” the First Apostle snapped, touching his forehead. “For five hundred years, I have served Uldar, and have never seen Heroes as disgraceful as you. In my time, Heroes were better. We were better.”

“We?” Alex whispered.

“When I discovered this sacred place, I was open to the truth of Uldar’s glory and chose to serve him in an even greater capacity than before,” the First Apostle’s voice sounded like it was coming from the depths of the valley. Mana pulsed around his hand as he touched his forehead once more.

Illusion magic peeled away.

“Oh shit!” Alex cried.

The strike force collectivelygasped.

“Life enforcement keeps my body strong so I might serve my god to the utmost of my ability, and until the end of his need for me,” the man’s voice rose.

Light glowed from a symbol on his forehead.

“No…” Drestra moaned.

“Oh this is bad,” Hart said.

Alex prayed to the Traveller that they survived whatever was coming next.

The symbol shining on the First Apostle’s forehead?

Was of a gleamingset of scales.

“Many cycles ago, I served Thameland as its Chosen,” he confessed. “I have seen Heroes rise. I have seen them fall. I am your senior.”

Light blazed around his hands.

“And all of you are in need of discipline.”