Mark of the Fool
Chapter 633: Watching the Throne

“Tell me…do you know what a patch is?” Hannah had asked on that fateful day Alex had summoned her to the hell of Cretalikon.

He’d frowned. “Like on a piece of old clothing?”

“Something like that. I couldn’t remember if I wrote about that in my book…” She had taken a deep breath. “In my old world, there’s something we used to call‘programs’. They’re a bit like spells, except they’re made by a central, um, company. Uh, place. Then users of these programs use them, but they can’t change them.”

“Okay…” Alex had said slowly. “But, what’s that got to do with the Mark?”

She had frowned, looking as though she was sorting through her thoughts. “Well, when a company puts out a program and they want to change it, they release something that’s called a ‘patch’. It’s new code—uh, a new piece of a spell that goes over top of the old spell and changes it.”

Alex could have been blown over by a stiff breeze. “So you’re saying that somebody…changed the Mark? That it was different before?”

She had nodded. “After Kelda heard about patches, she spent a long time examining her Mark: the very fibres of magic it was made of.”

“You can break it down?” Alex had asked. “Even archwizards haven’t been able to do that.”

“She had the Mark, she had my knowledge, and she had to build some very specialised equipment using materials you can’t even get in your world. But she built them and used the Mark to get good enough at using them to examine her Mark and mine.”

Hannah had tapped the Mark of the Saint, which still shone on her soul. “Mine is one complete piece of magic: the original version is the one that existed in my time and I imagine still exists today. But hers and yours? There’s signs that they’ve been patched. Someone changed the Mark of the Fool after it was originally made, Alex. It’s been altered.”

“What?” Alex had cried, jumping to his feet. “Someone tampered with it? You mean it wasn’t always so restrictive?”

“We didn’t find that out.” Hannah had shaken her head. “All I can tell you is that it was changed after it was originally made.”

The Traveller’s words reached out from Alex’s memories, his heart began pounding as he stared at the mural, especially at the Hero with the words: The Mark of the General, beneath it.

Everyone was doing much the same, examining the scene and the figures carved in it. Watchers muttered to one another in curiosity, while Alex’s cabal simply stared, looking too stunned to speak.

As for those whose roots were Thameish?

It was like their whole worldhad been undone.

“Can’t be right…how many bloody lies did they tell us?” Cedric murmured, his fingers running along the strange Hero’s image.

The figure was tall, wearing heavy armour and bearing a spear in one hand. The other hand blazed with magic, as a halo of light played about their head.

As the Chosen of Uldar—wielding an axe in one hand, lightning in the other, and with a holy halo of divinity encircling their head—led the other three Heroes toward the Ravener on the ground, this ‘General’ floated above them all, with their sword extended forward.

“It’s like the Chosen’s leading from the front,” Drestra’s voice crackled, an enormous claw touching the image of the Chosen. “While this General’s leading from above.”

“And Fools are always shown behind the other Heroes,” Carey said, fascinated. “But here we don’t see an actual Fool, instead, there’s this fifth Hero flying above the others.”

“It’s in the title, isn’t it?” Hart rumbled. “The General’s the leader.”

“Och, what a way t’find out th’Chosen’s meant t’be second,” Cedric shook his head. “Alex, what d’ya make outta all this?”

But, Alex could hardly speak.

He was transfixed by the symbol on the General’s forearm.

The Chosen’s symbol was a set of scales, representing the balance of combat, divinity and spellcraft, as well as the balance in Thameland, which the Heroes were meant to restore.

The Saint’s symbol was a simple upraised hand—the holy symbol of Uldar himself—representing their connection to the deity.

The Sage’s was a staff, representing their deep mastery over magic.

The Champion’s was a horned helmet, representing mastery over arms, combat, and their physical power.

And, of course, the Fool’s was a grinning jester’s face, representing the entertainment and ‘joy’ they were supposed to bring to the other Heroes with their own comical failings, and even buffoonery.

So, what did the General’s symbol actually represent?

In the mural, it was a sword atop an open scroll, with the blade’s pommel splitting like the peaks of a crown. Could that mean knowledge? Battle? Knowledge in battle? And the crown…rulership? Or—

Alex took a closer look at the sword’s pommel.

If the rest of the sword was removed, leaving only the pommel, then you’d have a symbol that looked like a head wearing a crown. But what if the crown’s points werehigher?

Exaggerated?

Floppy, instead of standing tall.

Wouldn’t that be similar to what a jester’s head looked like?

Wouldn’t that be oddly reminiscent of the Mark of the Fool.

Alex was sure he had it; the Mark on the forearm of this General was the one that existed before the ‘patch’. ‘This Mark of the General’ must have been altered and turned into the Mark of the Fool…

…but why change it…what happened?

Why would Uldar obliterate the Heroes’ leader?

Or had something else interfered.

Alex glanced down the stairs; if the murals were etched in chronological order, growing older the higher one went, then maybe the next one down might contain a clue.

Unless it was blank.

And, it was.

“Look at this.” Alex pointed to empty space along the white stone. “I wonder what happened; there’s no record there. Nothing. It’s like it was erased.”

Beneath the blank space was another detailed mural, but that one contained the Fool.

“And that isn’t the only thing that has been erased,” Carey’s spirit said grimly, pointing to the inscription beneath the general. “There’s no name under it. It’s just gone.”

“Uh…” Thundar rumbled. “Ever get the feeling you’re looking at something you really aren’t supposed to be looking at? Because that’s exactly the feeling I’m getting.”

“We all have many questions,” Merzhin said. “And we will have them answered at Uldar’s side. Come. Come!”

Alex ‘s eyes were fixed on the mural, but he could no more gain answers from it, than command the stone to speak. “That’s another question for Uldar.” he said, as they resumed their ascent, heading toward Uldar and answers. They walked and floated up the stairs in silence, watching the murals slip by.

The choir’s voices grew louder.

Each mural showed scenes of the Saint, Sage, Chosen and Champion led into battle by this mysterious General. But, the General’s name was always obscured. The image remained, rendered in glorious detail.

“Am I imagining it, or are there more Ravener-spawn in those murals where this general appears?” Khalik asked.

“I thought I was also imagining that,” Isolde said. “I wonder…maybe we are…we would have to look at the lower murals. Or perhaps up ahea—Oh.”

They passed five more murals, and on reaching the sixth, the content abruptly changed.

Now, there were no Heroes in them…only Uldar.

“These must be a record of his time in Thameland,” Merzhin mused. “Before he ascended from the physical plane. What a blessing it is to see him. Look! There he is giving food to the people.”

Each showed Uldar travelling the land, performing different miracles. Sometimes he caused crops to grow from fallow fields. Other times, he was shown using lightning and stone to kill threatening beasts.

In some he raised fish from the sea, giving them to the hungry.

He changed the weather.

Destroyed bandits.

Shattered, or conjured storms.

And in nearly every image, the people showed him their love; hundreds or thousands of tiny Thameish folk all worshipping at his knee.

“What is that?” Carey asked, floating before a mural that had caught her eye. “It’s like one of the images of the Heroes fighting the Ravener, but…but…”

“That’s not like any Ravener I’ve ever heard of,” Cedric murmured.

In the scene, Uldar faced a creature twice his height.

The thing looked monstrous, snail-like, with a familiar orb serving as its shell.

“That shell looks like the Ravener,” Alex noted, looking at the creature’s body. Where a snail’s head would have been, it had been replaced by a humanoid shape, reaching toward Uldar with a mass of arms that terminated in stingers.

Beneath bulging eyes, its lamprey-like mouth was wide open, as though screaming and lunging at Uldar. The god gazed upon it, looking regal, yet unyielding.

“That thing reminds me of the Ravener in certain ways…but…different…” Drestra’s claw reached for it.

“We have to move,” Carey’s spirit wavered. “I can’t…stay much longer…need to…protect you…”

“Yes! Please! No more looking at dead images when our living god is so near! We can almost talk with him!” Merzhin cried. “Come, he is just ahead. I feel his divinity!”

Together, they moved up the stairs, until—at last—they came to a vast hall. White benches lined the walls on either side, built between statues of Uldar looking down on them serenely, smiling with only kindness in his eyes.

The ceiling must have been a hundred feet high, as were double doors—fashioned of white stone—that loomed above them at the end of the hallway. Images of engeli blowing trumpets and singing, surrounded a powerfully built Uldar etched in the centre of the doors.

His hands were spread in welcome.

‘Egocentric, much?’ Alex thought. ‘I’d start to worry if I had this many images of myself everywhere I looked.’

“Huh, sounds to me like that singing’s coming from those doors,” Hart noted. “Those engeli statues, the ones that look like they’re singing? It seems they are.”

Alex felt another massive surge of mana.

“Welcome, children,” the kindly voice called to them from beyond the doors. “You must have many things to ask of me. Your guidance awaits. Come, see me.”

There was a tremendous grinding noise.

And the doors began to part.

Alex winced; he was about to meet the god of his realm. How many wished they could say that?

If only the circumstances were different.

“I will teleport everyone out with the last of my energies if he tries anything,” Carey said. “Don’t worry, the Traveller will protect us.”

As the doors swung open, they were bathed in a blinding white light.

“Uldar!” Merzhin screamed, running into the radiance.

“Wait!” Cedric shouted. “Stop runnin’ ahead, we can’t see a damned—”

Suddenly, an agonised scream came from ahead.

“Sod it!” the Chosen charged, raising his weapon.

The others ran after them, and—no sooner had they crossed the threshold—than the light began to fade. It paled. It dimmed.

Until, at last, they could see.

The room was immense, crowned by cavernous ceilings that met walls of smooth white stone. A shimmering carpet of golden thread ran down its centre, Merzhin hunched there, collapsed on his hands and knees.

“No…no! No!” the pallid Hero screamed, pounding his fists on the floor, tears streaming from his eyes.

Slowly, the others looked away, turning their attention to another part of the room.

There—seated on his titanic throne—was Uldar, the god of Thameland. He was much like his statues; white bearded, sharp-eyed and bearing a majestic cast to his face.

“Oh shite,” Cedric moaned. “Oh shite!”

“By the spirits…” Drestra’s voice crackled.

“Oh, we are in the shit now!” Hart rumbled.

Uldar’s mostly white robes were draped over him, like curtains spun of light itself. Peeking out from under his sleeves, emaciated hands gripped the armrests of his throne.

Brutus whimpered.

Carey’s spirit made a choking sound.

“This…is…I do not understand…” Claygon rumbled.

“By the sapphire sea,” Khalik swore.

“By my ancestors,” Thundar swore.

“By the elements,” Isolde, Hogarth and Svenia said as one.

A thin chest was exposed, showing immaculate skin below Uldar’s long white beard. His shoulders were broad, beyond majestic.

Alex’s knees buckled as he tried to make sense of what was before him.

He fought his mind, wanting it to understand what he was seeing; the black, dried ichor that must have once run from a great wound in Uldar’s side, staining his robes, his throne, and the floor beside him.

Alex began to make sense of the god’s distant expression.

His silence.

His inertia.

And it was on that momentous day in Uldar’s sanctum, the Fool of Thameland learned three things about his god.

Uldar was majestic.

Uldar was peaceful.

And, most importantly…

Uldar was dead.

“By the Traveller!” Theresa gasped. “What do we do now?”

And try as he might to answer her, only two words came to Alex’s stricken mind.

“Oh fu—”

END OF BOOK 7

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