Mark of the Fool
Chapter 644: An Ominous Providence

The Stalker.

An ominous name for a seemingly innocent fae.

Or at least, he might have seemed innocent to the untrained eye; to the First Apostle’s well trained one, he looked anything but.

To most, the blue-skinned fellow looked quite harmless, even jolly, much like any simple dwarven-like fae with a stark white beard and blue skin. But to Gabrian…his body language told a different story; it bled a primal menace that could make even a predator tremble with terror.

The fae’s true nature was carefully masked: he’d mastered his body language so well, that his guise of innocence appeared near perfect. Even many of Eldin’s agents, with their finely trained powers of observation, would have missed the imperfections, by Gabrian’s reckoning. He caught brief flashes of the fae’s true nature, peeking from the veil he hid behind: the perfect balance of weight on the balls of his feet, and a chilling gaze boring into the priest’s eyes.

With the stillness of an owl regarding a rodent, the Stalker stared down at the First Apostle from the back of his moose. The beast was well-groomed and tended, and there was a quiet intelligence burning in its bestial eyes.

But the Hero of Uldar’s heart did not quake.

His mind did not recoil.

His body did not flinch.

He had faced utter annihilation in the face of the Ravener and now, the destruction of his home; it would take more than a suspicious fae to worry him.

The question was: how did this mysterious fae come to be before him in this hidden grotto on a hidden island.

And why was he here?

“Good! Good!” The stocky fae shook with rolling laughter. “You’re not frightened of me! That’s good: the ones who don’t have much iron in their guts don’t last too long on the hunt. At least, not the kind of hunt that I lead.”

“You speak in riddles, which is not uncommon for your kind,” Gabrian said quietly. He did not move to attack, but he did hold himself tense and ready to strike; in all likelihood, the fae was here for no good purpose.

“You are the one who guides the Heroes through the fae roads, are you not?” the First Apostle asked. “I would think that you would be by their side, not mine.”

“Aye, I’m to guide the Heroes, but you’re a Hero yourself!” The Stalker once again shook with laughter as though he’d just pulled a very clever prank. “I’d be derelict in my duties if I weren’t guiding you too, wouldn’t I?”

While the First Apostle’s face was a mask of a calm, inwardly he grimaced; the fae were known for twisting words and engaging in strange humours and whimsy. He was not in the mood for such things. “Speak plainly, Stalker or Guide. As you have no doubt seen, we are in mourning, and here you are bringing shelter and food when we are suffering? I have never known your kind to be so generous.”

“Ho ho! Then you know less than I thought you did, my human friend!” the Stalker grinned, tapping the side of his mount’s neck. With a snort of golden steam, the hulking cervid backed into the wall of the grotto, vanishing through the stone much as Eldin had.

The First Apostle’s heart stung; there had been no sign of young Eldin among the survivors. When Gabrian had called down the lightning to rescue his people, the holy leader had not been carried to safety with them.

No matter where he, Izas and the other priests had searched on the island, there had been no sign of the man.

It could only mean that he was dead.

A terrible pity, that was; he had been one of Uldar’s greatest agents, as well as a man that Gabrian had personally liked.

The First Apostle would miss him dearly, and watching this fae disappear into the stone, was a sad reminder of the fallen priest.

An instant after the antler’s had melted away, the First Apostle heard a jolly laugh from outside the cavern. Both fae and moose reappeared, standing on the grass outside the grotto’s mouth as though that is where they had always been.

“Why don’t we take this outside? You can see my supplies, and know that I speak in good faith. Come on! I don’t have villains waiting outside to set upon you! Don’t think of me as some common bandit, now!”

Gabrian fixed his eyes on the fae, while muttering a prayer to Uldar. His raging divinity glowed through his soul, spreading over the land, searching for foes who were there unseen.

He found none.

Cautiously, the First Apostle walked toward the mouth of the grotto, collecting the clothing he’d placed on a stone shelf just inside the entrance; they were still rain soaked when he dressed and stepped outside.

There, neatly laid out on the grass, were folded tents of multicoloured fabric, and chests overflowing with fresh fruit and dried meats. It looked to be quite the feast, enough to make a starving man’s belly growl.

But, the First Apostle simply looked upon the offerings distantly.

“What is your price?” his deep voice said.

“Ah, so you know, then.” The fae grinned in delight.

“The fae are governed by many laws, including those around reciprocity. Deals are to be honoured and gifts are to be returned,” the First Apostle said. “Which means these gifts will be expected to be reciprocated. So I ask you: what do you want?”

“Well that’s the beauty of it,” the Stalker said. “What I want is what you want. You were muttering about hunting down the man known as Alex Roth, the Fool of Thameland?”

“I was.”

“Well, I want to hunt him too. And I want you and your warriors to join with me, as my huntsmen. As my hounds.”

“What?” Garbian looked at him sharply. “What quarrel do you have with the Fool of Thameland?”

Now the Stalker let out an explosive laugh that echoed over the hills. “Maybe you’re more naive than I thought. How adorable you humans are, no matter how old you get! I’ll answer you with some questions. Does the wolf have a quarrel with the sheep? Does the snake have a quarrel with the mouse? Does a human hunter have a quarrel with the fine buck he wants to bring home for his supper, and his trophy? There is no quarrel here.”

“You seek to hunt him for sport?” the First Apostle asked.

“Exactly!” the Stalker snapped his fingers. “I knew you were a clever one! A lot more clever than the Heroes of today, I have to say!”

“Why him?” Gabrian raised an eyebrow.

“Because the perfect quarry is so rare!” The Stalker’s eyes gleamed with greed. “Listen here, boyo, because I’ll make my story quick and easy for you: I’ve been many things. For every name I have—which I collect in the same way you folk collect coins—I have been something different. I’ve been a Soldier, a Guide, a Crafter, a Dealmaker, a Witch, a Jolly Old Elf, a Giver, a Taker, a Maker, and a Destroyer. The name changed each time I took on something new that struck my fancy! But, listen here, the thing I’ve been the longest? Is a hunter!”

He licked his lips. “And, oh my, if you could only see the hunts I’ve led! I’ve hunted mortals, beasts, monsters, fae, spirits, demons: if it has a name, I’ve hunted something like it! I was never very picky when I was a young’n, like you…but, bah! Time makes fools of us all, doesn’t it! After a time, bucks, does, children, warriors, beasts, dragons…none of them were satisfying anymore! And you can’t have a good hunt without good quarry to hunt, friend, trust me. It just doesn’t work. You can have everything else lined up perfectly, be it weapons, a hunting party, good terrain…”

The fae sighed wistfully, then his gaze turned bitter. He spat on the ground. “But, I’ll tell you this, none of that piles up to a hill of toadstools if the quarry’s no good!”

“And what makes for good quarry?” the First Apostle asked, watching the old fae’s body language, searching for any guarded secrets that the Stalker’s movements might betray.

“Oh, a lot of things! It actually gets so complicated that I could be here lecturing you all day on what makes for good quarry.” He rubbed his hands together. “But the basics of it? Challenge. And I’m not one of those suicidal hunters who’ll pick a fight with the biggest, baddest beastie out there. No, no that’s what I call stupid! Why would a fox go trying to hunt a leviathan, that’s silly!”

He winked. “And that’s why I never hunted your god when he walked the world, I’m not hunting any of the fae lords, and I am not hunting that old, goat-monster that those wizards from the south brought with them. That’d be a great way to get killed, and I’m not interested in that. But at the same time, I don’t want to be hunting squirrels and chipmunks! Quarry needs to have some kinda way to bite back, or what would be the point? If there’s no danger there’s no thrill, and if there’s no thrill, there’s no fun. So, they’ve got to have enough power to hurt or kill you, but not enough to do it as simply as breathing.”

The fae tapped the side of his skull. “And the quarry’s got to be smart. They’ve got to be able to run and squirm out of traps! They’ve got to be able to build traps of their own, and trick you if you’re being dull or lazy. They’ve got to keep you sharp! Now, all of that’s a bit of a tall order when you’re as old and jaded as I am, but this Fool of Thameland of yours? He’s perfect. Hard-willed. Clever. He can teleport around to get away, which is always interesting in quarry. It’s all grand! He’s perfect, and I want to hunt him, but for that, I need hounds!”

Gabrian frowned deeply. “By hounds I take it you mean hunting partners to flush out your quarry? But—since you are fae—you use derogatory terms because your hunting hounds are, most likely, sapient mortals.”

“Aye! Aye!” the Stalker cried. “And now you might be wondering why I am telling you—”

“You are telling me this because you want to be open, which will increase the chances of me trusting you. You are handing us these gifts so that I am obligated to aid you in hunting the Fool. You are hunting the Fool for your own amusement, and you need others to join you because only a fool hunts dangerous prey alone. But—since you wish for this to be your own glory—you want “hounds”, not hunting partners. Am I correct?” Gabrian folded his hands behind his back.

“I…you’re a sharp one.” The Stalker’s cheer faded. He regarded the First Apostle with rising caution. “Then, if you know all that, are you gonna help me?”

“No, we shall help each other,” Gabrian said simply.

“You trust me?” the Stalker asked.

“No, but I trust Uldar. It is no accident that—in our time of need—one who has the same desires as we do comes bearing gifts and wishes for help in doing something we already wish to accomplish.” The First Apostle looked at the fae evenly. “I cannot help but see divine providence in this chance: you can move through the fae roads, letting us hunt our quarry even if he teleports away from us. We would hunt him by choice, which you also desire; our service would be returned for a gift, leaving us even. There are few reasons to refuse this. ”

“Ah, I see there’s sense in you!” the Stalker laughed. “You’ll make a fine hound for the hunt!”

“Call me whatever you wish: I am Uldar’s servant, and that will not change, no matter what word you use for me. What matters is the task. I will not bother threatening you: you seem well-informed enough to know my actions if you betray my people.” Gabrian gestured to the supplies. “We will talk, plan and organise together. And then, as you wish, we will hunt.”

“Hah!” the Stalker laughed. “Now, this will be a hunt to remember!”