Mark of the Fool
Chapter 643: The Hero, Gabrian

There once was a man named Gabrian.

Well, more accurately, a boy named Gabrian.

His birth was an ordinary one, occurring in early summer as the trees filled with leaves and the flowers bloomed. There were no blazing lights in his parents’ cottage when he came screaming into the world.

No blasts from horns.

No engeli descending from the heavens to announce his birth.

But to Gabrian’s father and mother, he was—as many children are to their parents—special. And special was what the child’s exhausted mother said when the local priest handed her the squalling baby with a knowing and gentle smile.

He had heard most mothers call their children special.

And they were, to those parents.

Gabrian was a good boy, and he grew up well; obedient, gentle yet determined, if a little shy. He did not make friends easily, though he did have some, but he mostly preferred to help his father in the smithy.

As the village blacksmith’s son, he helped his dear father forge horseshoes, shovels, pots and whatever the village needed. His body grew strong, his heart calm, and his mind patient thanks to the endless rise and fall of his hammer pounding iron and steel in the smithy.

He attended the church school as did his peers, but showed no great aptitude for his studies. Far from being dull-witted, though no genius either, he more than made up forhis failings with a good heart, and a deep dedication to Uldar.

As he grew, so did his popularity.

His strength saw him excel in every game and sport the village boys got up to. His athletic body and deep, calm voice caught the eyes and ears of the village girls. Gabrian accepted their attention evenly and humbly, as he floundered through the ups and downs of youth.

He often found himself in trouble for sneaking away to the woods after dark. When he was very young, it was with his male friends who dared one another to spend the night in the forest. When he got older and his eye wandered to the village girls, it was for…other reasons.

Sometimes, he would fight with his friends then make up, the fight soon forgotten.

Sometimes, he would step out with a girl until an argument ended things.

Sometimes he would be rowdy at festivals.

And—through all of this—working in the smithy with his father, the church school, and worship every week, were always there.

All in all, he was no different that most young men growing up in Thameland’s countryside, and his father had a fine plan laid out for the young man’s future; they would expand the smithy, and together with Gabrian’s brothers, the family would continue forging horseshoes, shovels, pots and everything else the village needed until Uldar was ready to call them home.

Gabrian was content with this plan; he’d met a girl who he wanted for his wife, he enjoyed his work at the smithy, and loved life in the village.

He was ready to live that life—walking the path planned for him—until the natural end of his days.

But, Uldar had his own plans.

On his eighteenth birthday, the young man fell to the floor of his bedroom—just as he had risen from bed—with terrible pains throbbing through his skull. Memories and strange feelings took over his being.

When––what could only be described as some sort of attack—passed, he stumbled from his room; a golden set of scales shining on his forehead.

Gabrian had become Uldar’s Chosen, destined to lead the Heroes into battle.

And lead them he did.

He left his old life behind, walking the path of war with four companions at his side. The Chosen planned to dedicate everything he had to defeating Uldar’s greatest enemy, destroying every Ravener-spawn in the land.

Unfortunately, he had been dealt a bad hand by chance.

In an early, disastrous battle, both the Saint and Fool lost their lives.

Shortly, the Sage and Champion followed.

In the space of a year, Gabrian was the only Hero left in Thameland, and the only one standing between the realm and its destruction by the Ravener.

He vowed not to let his homeland fall.

He was a Hero dedicated to Uldar and Thameland, after all and—even if he had to sacrifice his very life—he would defeat the Ravener doing so.

And so he trained.

To spellcraft, he dedicated countless hours in the army’s campsites.

In divinity, he prayed without fail, consulting with the priests of the realm.

In combat, he drilled and trained endlessly, growing both strength and experience.

Years passed as he fought the Ravener in vain, fighting the endless battle. Then one day, he was blessed with luck and divine providence. He met a mercenary from the continent, one who displayed shocking physical power.

He was a man who practised an art called life enforcement: a form of divinity that needed no deities and drew power from nature. Impressed with what he saw, Gabrian asked if he would teach him his art and—though it was challenging—he was initiated into the practice.

His life force transformed.

His body transformed.

And he fought the Ravener with new found determination and power.

With time, he destroyed Uldar’s enemy, defeating it for a cycle.

The people celebrated on their safe return to Thameland’s shores, and the army lionised him.

Yet—after five long years of war—the Chosen found himself adrift, a man changed in more ways than one. Remembering his dead companions haunted his dreams. A noise as innocent as a twig snapping underfoot, stirred images of stalking Ravener-spawn inside of him.

His past desire to forge horseshoes, shovels, pots or anything else the village needed, died. He no longer wished to marry his fiancee and father children that his enhanced lifeforce would ensure he would outlive.

And so, he decided to dedicate his long life to Uldar and to Thameland, setting out to explore the land from its highest mountaintop, to its deepest pit.

And it was during these travels—that by luck and Uldar’s blessings—he encountered a hidden valley. Through sheer force of will, he overcame the divine enchantment that kept outsiders away, then he made his way to Uldar’s Rise.

He found peace there; at last, he’d found his place.

The hidden priesthood welcomed him, inviting him to stay if he chose to; they cared for him in those early days. His nightmares grew fewer. His heart was less troubled.

His mind was calmer.

Decades passed peacefully afterhe joined the priesthood and was initiated into its secrets. He made a home in the escarpment of Uldar’s Rise. He made a life. With time, his dedication and leadership elevated him to the position of First Apostle.

And he learned many things in that role.

He learned how to communicate with Uldar’s secret servants.

He learned how to meditate on the destiny of Thameland.

He learned that—for Thameland’s safety—Uldar had decreed that the Ravener cycles continue until a certain event came to pass. Gabrian found comfort in this: his friends, rather than having died for nothing, he now concluded that they had died as part of Uldar’s great plan for the realm.

Embracing the comfort of having deep faith, the Chosen of Uldar knew peace.

And in humility, he had finally proven his mother’s words to be true; he was special.

Among even past First Apostles, he was remarkable. He was the first to ever practise life enforcement. He was the first Hero to serve in the role.

And…

…he was also the first to ever lose Uldar’s Rise to an enemy.

And, it was on this failure that Gabrian prayed.

The First Apostle, Chosen of Uldar, was stripped naked and prostrated within a hidden grotto away from the other displaced folk of Uldar’s Rise. His dark hair was coated with rainwater, his knees and elbows pressed into rough stone.

The arm severed by the Fool of Thameland had regrown, but he was not used to his new appendage. It would take time for him to adjust to the new arm, and for Izas to adjust to his as well.

And these were not the only freshly healed wounds that his people would need time to recover from.

He had failed them, he could not deny this.

Their generational home had been taken from them, robbed from them by violent interlopers. Families had been crushed. Children, orphaned. The priesthood, devastated.

All because he had let a serpent into their home, and hadn’t acted until it had bitten everyone.

“Uldar,” he prayed. “A curse upon the ungrateful child of Thameland, Carey London. A curse upon her.”

It had not taken him long to put together what had happened.

He’d had reports of the Generasian’s explosive experiments, she must have somehow set one off inside Uldar’s Rise.

“May you catch her soul,” the First Apostle prayed. “May you punish it forevermore, may you cast it into the lowest pits in all the hells to be fodder for demons. May she scream and weep and regret. …regret…if only she could feel a fraction of the regret that had rained down upon your chosen people!”

Gabrian shuddered, regret rising in him, making him wish he had simply killed her when he’d first laid eyes on her in Uldar’s Rise. Part of him—a wisdom gained from half a millenia of life—told him that he had been right to keep her alive to gather information.

He’d been righteous in his desire to bring her back to the fold.

He’d been wise to keep her alive so the Saint of Uldar would not turn his back on his god.

The error happened because of her ungratefulness to Uldar, the treacherousness of the Saint and the other Heroes, the filthy foreign invaders and…

…the Fool.

All too often the Fool had caused problems for the other Heroes and Thameland.

But Gabrian could recall no cycle—even the General’s Folly—where the Fool had done so much harm. With Uldar’s Rise damaged and held by foreigners, only the god of Thameland himself could predict what was going to happen next.

The invading enemies must be purged if the cycle was to be righted, if it even could be righted.

And for that?

The Fool must die.

“He has gathered the favour of the Traveller, and he had a role of leadership in our battle. The Heroes have spent too much time with him, training together…yes, he is a source of many problems,” the First Apostle said. “But there are other issues to deal with as well.”

The Generasians must be driven from Thameland’s shores.

Completely.

He knew he could not accomplish this by force.

Izas had reported that an ancient wizard served as leader of the foreigners: Baelin. Any wizard so old and powerful could not be vanquished through sheer force of arms. Not without an even higher cost to them.

The situation called for subtle solutions.

The First Apostle knew that the king had given Generasi permission to buy Greymoor.

If that permission could be revoked, perhaps because they had committed a crime against the throne…

But such an operation would take time to set up.

The first thing that must be done was raise morale; bringing their enemies to justice would do this.

“Let the Fool die,” the First Apostle prayed. “Oh holy Uldar, steady my hand and give me the chance to find and destroy your great enemy. Show me the way to bring the Fool’s life to a quick end.”

“Ahhh, mayhaps Uldar’s searching on your behalf, my young friend,” a new voice said in the grotto.

The First Apostle was on his feet in a blink, whirling and dropping to a fighting stance with no regard for his nakedness.

A majestic bull moose stood before him, his nostrils puffing, expelling golden steam. Bells tinkled on his branching antlers, and their merry sound mingled with the low chuckle of the creature’s rider. The man astride the beast’s back had an otherworldly cast to his skin, like frostbite mixed with blueberry stains.

Mistletoe, blood-red holly, and other Sigmus plants were braided through his snow-white beard and scarlet clothing, a satchel—bursting with shining golden scrolls—hung from his side. No saddle adorned the moose’s back.

A wide grin bloomed across the rider’s face and his faded grey eyes danced with mirth. “Hello Hero and friend! Many fine mornings to you!”

“Who are you?” Gabrian demanded. “How did you get here and what do you want? Speak quickly or I shall strike you down!”

“No need for any striking, servant of Uldar. I’m here to help. I’ve brought food and tents for your people. And I’ve also brought an offer for you. As for who I am? I’m known by many names throughout many times and in many roles, all of them important!” the fae said, puffing out his broad chest. “Some, some call me the Guide. As for you? For our purposes, I think the best name for you to call me.”

His smile bloomed with malice.

“Is the Stalker.”

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