Mark of the Fool
Chapter 637: The Waiting Meal

Footsteps echoed through ominously quiet corridors of white stone.

Within the sanctum, the group moved cautiously, searching Uldar’s hallways, eyes constantly scanning for traps or guardians.

Though they had beenassured that the place was secureby the spirit of their fallen friend, they took no chances; these were the halls of a dead god, his home, after all, and they were trespassers in them.

Claygon’s head swivelled in all directions as his great, iron bulk moved along the hallways. His war-spear was held low and at the ready. Brutus—sheathed in bone armour—sniffed the air, three pairs of eyes watching.

Theresa and Grimloch listened for the softest sound, their hands hovering near their weapons.

Their other friends and allies were tense, expecting an attack from any side.

But nothing came.

They were expecting engeli or other celestial servants to emerge from the shadows, railing against mortal blasphemy, but neither divine wards, nor divine guardians appeared to strike them with holy lightning. No ghost of Uldar suddenly sprang from the walls, smiting them or turning them to dust in his towering wrath.

No threats came.

Not a single soul was watching them in silence.

“This feels less like a sanctuary and more like a tomb,” Svenia grunted, her grip tightening on her halberd.

“Yeah,” Hogarth muttered. “The tomb of a god…if anyone ever told me when I was a lad that I’d be somewhere like this one day, tracking muddy boot prints across white stone floors, I’d have called them—” His words stopped as he glanced behind them. “—Huh? Uh, Lady von Anmut?”

“What is it, Hogarth?” Isolde looked at him.

“It’s our tracks, they’re uh, disappearing.”

As one, everyone turned.

To their rear, boot and foot prints—caked with muck from the rain soaked ground outside—marked their trail along the hall for a good twenty paces…then beyond that, the floor was clean.

Alex looked at Claygon as mud gradually melted away from the golem’s colossal iron feet like ice on a warm spring day, and within seconds, his feet were completely clean, muddy footprints wiped from the floor. Everyone’s tracks were vanishing in much the same way, soon the floors would be as clean as before they stampeded inside through the portal.

Alex frowned, looking around. “You know, now that I think of it…there’s no dust in here. Not a speck of dirt, not even a stray hair. Nothing. This place is immaculate.”

Watcher Hill nodded. “It seems there’s still power at play here. We should be especially careful.”

“And how exactly are we gonna be especially careful if the phantom of a pissed off, dead god comes out of a wall?” Thundar asked.

“Carey said it’s safe,” Merzhin said quietly. “And I believe her. And…even if we were to be…” He paused, before uttering the next word. “...blessed by the presence of Uldar’s holy spirit, I am with you as are the rest of his Heroes. He would not harm…us…”

The Saint’s last words were spoken with such uncertainty, that it seemed even he didn’t quite believe them.

“Either way,” Watcher Hill said. “We wanted to explore this place, so let's get on with it. This hall has to end at somepoint.”

As it turned out, they were only a few dozen paces from the end of the hallway, which was around a corner just ahead of them. Short steps down another corridor, they came to a doorway framed on each side by statues of two tall barbarian women clad in animal furs and bearing a basket of grain in one hand, and a spear, with its tip pointing toward the ceiling, in the other.

Beyond the barbarian statues, the space opened to a large hall, furnished with long tables of white stone.

It was reminiscent of an old Thameish mead hall, straight from earlier times, though formed of white stone rather than dark earth, timber and thatch, like mead halls of old once were. In the centre of the chamber stood a towering fountain shaped in Uldar’s form—rising twice Claygon’s height—holding a cornucopia above his head.

A stream of gold coloured liquid flowed from the cornucopia, and even from their distance near the doorway, the scent of sweet wine reached their nostrils. It cascaded downward, running into a basin at the foot of the statue that was deep enough to wade in—despite being constantly fed by the statue—it wasn’t overflowing.

Golden goblets were laid out around the rim of the fountain, while carved stone benches ringed its perimeter. Alex could easily imagine folk—hosted by Uldar—seated on those benches, casually chatting while dipping golden goblets into the fountain whenever thirst struck them.

“Incredible,” Khalik murmured, slowly making his way to the statue. He looked up at the cornucopia. “I have heard of decanters of infinite water, but never a fountain of endless wine.” He leaned toward the basin, using his hand to waft some of the vintage’s scent toward him. “Hm. What an aroma. It smells absolutely…well, divine, I suppose.”

“Divine…how appropriate, considering where we are.” Isolde stepped up beside Khalik, wafting the scent to her nostrils. “And you are right, it smells quite lovely.”

“Tastes pretty good, too,” another voice rumbled.

“Yes, that is right, Grimloch. Though we will need to be careful, in case it is poisoned—” She paused, slowly looking at the sharkman.

The others followed her gaze.

Grimloch was holding a goblet between two fingers, pouring its contents down his throat. “Yeah, that’s the best I’ve ever had. I could drink this stuff all damn day, and I don’t even like wine.”

Cedric burst out laughing. “Well, don’ let no one accuse y’of bein’ a coward, Grimloch.”

“I’d eat ‘em if they did.”

“Aye…I don’ doubt y’would too. Still, ain’t this a surprise. Looks like ol’ Uldar was ready t’entertain folks…an’ a lot of ‘em.” The Chosen took in the hall, pointing to the long, white tables dotting the space. “Looks like there’s room enough t’seat an’ feed a hundred or two, by my reckonin’. An’ that fountain'd keep ‘em in wine f’ever.”

Merzhin sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging. “To think that at one time, we could have come here and supped with Uldar. If only I was born earlier. Now, that opportunity is lost forever.”

Theresa scoffed. “At this point, I wouldn’t eat with him if I was starving and he was the last being that had any food in the world.”

Merzhin shot her a heated look, glaring at the huntress.

He opened his mouth, as though to say something, but seemed to think better of it and stayed quiet.

An awkward moment of silence followed, suddenly broken by Brutus’ barking.

The cerberus padded deeper into the hall, his noses pointing toward a table at the back of the room.

“Huh,” Alex murmured, noticing what had gotten Brutus so excited.

At the end of the farthest table—a spread of food was laid out. The meal was one that hunters in Thameland’s earlier days would have eaten: platters of roasted venison and wild boar, plates of steamed mushrooms, sweetpeas and beans, burdock, onions, leeks and heaps of wild garlic.

“Huuuuuh.” Alex murmured again as the group approached the food. “Those vegetables look like they were just picked and cooked.”

“And all that food’s still steaming hot.” Grimloch licked his lips.

“Aye…it looks like it came outta the kitchen jus’a wee bit a’fore we walked in here.” Cedric lifted his morphic weapon, it snapped into the shape of a spear. The Chosen looked around like he expected something to spring from under the tables. The colour drained from his face. “Oi, if’n that food’s still hot…anyone thinkin’ maybe Uldar just died? Maybe he’s been dead f’only a few minutes.” His voice had dropped to a whisper.

Silence gripped the room as Merzhin quickly shook his head.

“The food’s hot, but that doesn’t mean anything.” The Saint pointed to the fountain. “That fountain spouts wine by Uldar’s divine will and holy decree: I can feel the divinity from it. He could have easily had the food remain hot and fresh with his divine power; the meal could have been set out centuries ago.”

“But wait, he’s dead. Shouldn’t everything be cold, rotten and mummified if it’s so old?” Grimloch asked.

“That doesn't matter,” Merzhin said without elaborating.

Alex frowned, wondering exactly what he meant.

The Saint nodded to the food. “We aren’t focusing on what really matters. Look, there are two places set. Two goblets, two plates, though only a single fork, one knife and one spoon. Uldar expected to dine with someone else. But who?”

“Maybe some divine servant o’ his?” Cedric proposed.

“That’s weird.” Alex scratched his head. “I’m no expert on gods, but everything I’ve read says they usually either have no divine servants, or a lot of divine servants. Having only one seems a bit…odd.”

“How so?” Hart asked.

“Some deities enlist a number of divine servants. They can be heralds, bodyguards, generals, champions, or attendants.” Watcher Hill joined in. “Or even sycophants. Oreca kept dozens of powerful water elementals and high priests around to back him in battle, though he didn’t truly need them, even as a demigod; for most threats in the world, his power was enough. Any threat that would have been a challenge to his power would be far stronger than his servants could handle. They would have been torn apart like wet parchment.”

“So he kept them around to stroke his own ego?” Theresa guessed.

“Exactly, and to send a message,” Watcher Hill said. “Oreca wanted to put an image out to the world that he not only was power, but he was also surrounded by power that bowed to him. Many deities are like that, keeping servants for egotistical reasons: a full-on deity who has ascended from the material plane usually has to expend a lot of energy to return to it, even temporarily. Divine servants can act as their hands in their absence.”

“And many hands make for light work: a deity who has lots of divine servants can have them represent his or her interests across the material plane at once,” Khalik added. “But, some deities do not bother with servants. They simply have so much confidence in their own power that they act on their own. After all—” The prince gestured around the hall. “Uldar would have needed no servants to keep this place clean, or its larder stocked. His divinity could manage such mundane things with ease. And he had the church to take care of his interests on the material plane. So…to have one single servant here with him would not make much sense. Young deities and demigods who are ascending might have just a single divine servant or two, but—if they wanted to cultivate a household of attendants—one or two would be just a start. As they grew older and more powerful, they would gather and create their full complement of vassals. And since Uldar was already millennia old—”

“He’d probably have a bunch of servants who’d be trying to beat the shit out of us for trespassing,” Hart said. “Or he’d have none. Am I getting that right?”

“Yes,” Merzhin said. “Which is why a feast for two seems strange.”

“Was…Uldar…married?” Claygon asked. “Did he…have a…lover?”

The Saint shook his head. “Nothing in the holy scriptures indicates that Uldar ever had a wife or divine family.”

“Aye, but them holy scriptures seem like they left a lot’o’things out, now don’t they?’ Cedric pointed out. “Didn’t say a damned thing about him bein’ dead, for one.”

“Still.” Merzhin gestured in the direction of the throne room. “We’ve seen a great deal of statues since entering his sanctum: all are either of Uldar, engeli, or ancient Heroes. We’ve seen no carvings of a wife or children.”

“Maybe…” Claygon rumbled. “He was…expecting a guest? Maybe…another…another god or goddess? Maybe someone else…?”

“Hm, that seems pretty likely, actually,” Alex mused. “Deities don’t need to eat, so maybe he was putting out this food because he was going to be entertaining someone.”

“Perhaps this ‘guest’ was the one responsible for our god’s death,” the Saint said with a note of flint in his voice.

“It’s too early to know for sure.” Alex shrugged.

“Then we should move on.” Watcher Hill nodded to the other side of the hall. “There are two more doors that lead out of here. Let’s see what’s behind them.”