Mark of the Fool
Chapter 701: The Giant's Cottage

“I think I’m hearing this Birger’s song,” Theresa whispered. “We’re getting closer.”

“Good…” Claygon whispered. “These woods…are strange…it is…unsafe here…”

He floated above the group, sheathed in invisibility magic while Theresa, Brutus and Alex trudged the twisting woodcutter’s path through the forest.

Strange symbols had been carved in the tree trunks.

Some looked like glyphs in the firbolgs’ tongue.

Others resembled half finished characters from a dozen other languages.

Some looked to be magical glyphs, while others appeared to be partially-finished copies of the symbols the rune-marked bore.

“These are interesting,” Alex whispered. “I wonder what they mean?”

His eyes scanned the trees as he felt for any flow of mana in the air.

He found nothing that would give him any answers; symbols were etched in nearly every tree trunk they passed, their full meaning hidden from him. Bits of answers swarmed around, unconnected to each other, not in any language he could decipher, but in shapes. If they could be spoken aloud, there would be no recogniseable words, only syllables and noise.

Yet, power emanated from the wood.

As they made their way down the path, the air grew heavy and oppressive. Cold deepened. Wind grew more biting. Trees twisted and changed, taking on ominous shapes, towering like demonic sentries or menacing blue annis hags, all reaching toward the path to pluck Alex’s head from his neck.

It was as though the forest was intent on driving them out.

Alex bit his lip. “There’s power here…some kinda ward,” he whispered.

Theresa’s hands were gripping her sword hilts. “What kind of ward? Is it trying to get rid of us?”

Brutus growled, three heads swivelling, noses sniffing the air.

Alex shook his head. “I think it’s trying to keep something else out, we’re just catching the edges of it. If it was targeting us, we’d be having a much rougher time of it. I wonder—”

“Hold that thought,” Theresa whispered, nodding toward the trees. “There’s a cottage up ahead, through the trees…I hear something else. Not sure what..”

“How far?” Alex asked.

“Maybe four hundred paces.”

“Keep an eye out,” he said, looking at the symbols with suspicion. “Chief Olaf didn’t say that this Birger was dangerous…or that his ‘boy’ was…but I doubt he told us everything. Be on your guard; we’ll come in openly, but we should be prepared for anything.”

“Right.” She tightened her grip on her swords.

‘Stay sharp, Claygon. Be ready for anything,’ Alex warned the airborne golem.

‘I’m ready…father…’

Together, they continued down the path, the song growing louder.

It was…worldless…more of a throaty hum than actual singing. The voice was older, deeper, gravelly, touched by the weight of time. Baelin’s voice held greater wisdom and majesty.

But this one carried a weariness that someone as young as Alex could not begin to comprehend.

And it came from within the confines of the cottage in the middle of the clearing. The structure was wooden; faced with uneven stones, sealed with crumbling mortar and roofed with a thick thatch that was reinforced with wood.

A single window—with shutters closed tightly—sat in a south facing wall that also held a towering door carved with the countenance of a demonic tree on the front of it.

The cottage was built beside a frozen stream with a motionless water wheel protruding from the ice. From behind the cottage, they heard the faint sound of wood groaning and stone grinding through the trees, barely audible above the song.

In the clearing around the cottage, small animal carcasses hung from wooden racks. Massive targets—carved mimicking humanoid shapes—were positioned in the snow, evenly spread out around the space.

Deep gashes lay in each one.

Alex’s eyes narrowed, focusing on the targets. “Those cuts are real deep,” he whispered. “Each target looks about the size of a golem knight; the wood’s pretty solid. You’d need a lot of strength to cut that deep; more than I’d expect a three hundred year old elder…and a boy to have.”

“Whatever it is…I will fight for you…father…” Claygon whispered.

“Thanks, buddy,” Alex said, taking a deep breath, preparing to call out.

Suddenly, the song stopped.

A strained silence fell over the clearing; even the wind died, leaving leaves and branches still.

“Who’s there?” a grizzled voice called in the common tongue.

It came from the cottage, but echoed from every tree around them.

Mana pulsed in the air.

The hairs on the back of Alex’s neck rose.

“My name is Alex Roth, of Thameland! With me are Brutus, and Theresa Lu, also of Thameland!” he called.

“And the one above you? The floating metal man? Or will you not introduce him?” the gravelly voice said.

The grinding from behind the cottage abruptly ended.

Heavy footfalls—very heavy footfalls—pounded through the snow.

“Stop!” the wizened voice called. “I will deal with this.”

Alex and Theresa looked at each other, then he waved the aeld staff.

Invisibility melted away from Claygon.

“Is that aeld wood?” the elder’s voice asked, surprise apparent in its tone.

“It is…” Alex said. “And Chief Olaf said to tell you that he’ll send food the day after tomorrow! And he also said to tell you that the ward should stand strong!”

Silence.

“So you have been to the village, and yet you are now here. Why?” the voice asked, its tone dropping lower. A rough note had entered it. “Did Olaf send you to do what he’s been too cowardly to do himself? Is that why you brought that golem knight?”

“I…am no…golem knight…I am a golem…I am Claygon...I am…not here to fight you…my father…wants to learn…from you…”

“Learn what?” a deep voice spoke from behind the cottage. It echoed with a ferocious challenge, but cracked part way through. It was deep, yet wavered between the boyish tones of an adolescent, and the deep, rough bass of an adult man. “What do you want from my father?”

Again, there came the sound of a heavy footfall bounding through the snow.

“I said stay back, son!” the elder’s voice cried. “What is it you seek, stranger? You’re upsetting my son.”

Suspicion still filled the deep voice.

Alex cursed under his breath; if anything, mentioning the firbolg chieftain had only made things worse. What had happened between this small family and the rest of their clan?

The young wizard decided to simply get to the reason they were there. “Listen, friend,” he called. “I have something for you.”

In an instant, Alex teleported away, appearing within a snowy cavern where he’d left two elk carcasses. Hoisting them onto his broad shoulders, he teleported back to the clearing.

A surprised cry came from the cottage.

“I come bearing these two elk stags,” Alex said. “They are not the fattest, but they should feed you for a time. They are our gift to you, in hopes that you can tell me about some events that occurred here in Kymiland some three hundred years ago.”

“Three hundred years…you say…” the voice sounded more suspicious. “You are from Thameland, you say? Do you call Uldar your master?”

The threat in the air spiked.

Power seemed to crackle from every tree, as though the entire forest was poised to attack.

Theresa tensed.

Brutus growled.

Claygon lifted his spear.

Alex paused.

‘Why did he get so defensive when I brought up what happened three hundred years ago?’ he thought. ‘And he again asked if I was from Thameland, and…wait…wait, wait, wait! Does he think I’m from the church? And if he does, there’s likely only one reason why he’d care. Time to gamble.’

“I am the present Fool of Thameland!” Alex announced.

He dropped the deer carcasses in the snow, then threw off his cloak and rolled up his right sleeve. Dispelling the illusion on his shoulder, he revealed the Mark of the Fool.

“I was marked by Uldar and fated to fight and die in his name, but I chose not to!” he said. “I know that the church is treacherous, and I know that they’ve had secrets for a very long time; I’m looking for Kelda’s legacy! She was the Fool three centuries ago! And I think she came to these lands, along with those who hunted her! Do you know anything about that? Can you help me?”

Unexpectedly, the ominous air hanging over the forest fled.

A racket came from inside the cottage, like a massive body moving at speed.

The door flew open.

In the doorway, framed by firelight, a firbolg stood, his fine features thatched by the lines of age. His face, though ancient, still bore some of the chiselled look of his youth behind a white beard.

He stared at the strangers, blue eyes filled with shock. He was leaning on a heavy crutch that took the place of his left leg.

“You…” He limped from the doorway, the crutch pressing into the snow. “...you know of Kelda?”

“Father!” the other voice called from behind the cottage. “What is happening?”

A massive figure—one that dwarfed every firbolg that Alex had seen in the village—strode from around the cottage, kicking up a spray of snow as he charged.

He stood taller and broader than Claygon. His torso was enormous, as thick as an ancient oak, and his arms were corded with bulging muscle that looked big enough to rip a castle portcullis from its gatehouse.

His hair flowed long and black, the beginnings of a scraggly beard marked his face; a face that shared a strong resemblance to the firbolg elder before them, though his features were coarser.

And younger.

Much younger.

If he’d been of human blood, Alex wouldn’t have figured him to be much older than sixteen.

What caught the young wizard’s eye most, though, wasn’t the young firbolg’s face or stature.

It was what lay on his chest.

His bare chest.

In the centre of his breastbone—over his heart—was a crimson rune.

One burning brightly.

“Oh shit,” Theresa murmured.

“Yeah, I’ll say,” Alex whispered.

Suddenly, things became clear.

The giants that lived in the village, the reason for their obvious hostility to the old firbolg and his son. The fact that the pair lived away from the rest of the clan. The symbols on the trees, and how some resembled rune-marked runes.

‘If this child is a rune-marked, and the rune-marked attack giants,’ Alex thought. ‘The firbolgs probably hate these two. And rune-marked people are apparently prone to violence; so the clan would probably see this boy as a danger.’

“Bjorgrund!” the old firbolg shouted at his son. “I said I would deal with this!”

“You sounded like you were in trouble, father,” the larger giant growled, his enormous hands balling into fists.

“Think before you act, son!” the young giant’s father shouted. “Now your secret is revealed to strangers! You must think; I am not dying yet, I have ways to protect myself!”

Bjorgrund looked as though he would say something…but fell silent, his eyes looking down. “I’m…sorry, father.”

“As long as you think. Use your mind and control yourself, son; you don’t know when thoughtlessness will cause things that cannot be undone,” the older giant said.

He then turned to Alex, his expression desperate. “Kelda, do you know her? Does she still live? I know there are humans who have extended their lives through magic and elixirs. Has she sent you here?”

Alex grimaced. “Were you friends of hers?”

The firbolg winced as though someone had slapped him. “Were?”

Alex swallowed. “Kelda lost her life three centuries ago, trying to…” He paused, wondering how much more he should reveal.

“...trying to undo her Mark?” the old giant asked.

Alex’s jaw dropped. “If you know that much, you must have known her very well.”

“I…I did,” the firbolg elder closed his eyes, as though trying to endure a burning pain.

“She was indeed a friend. A very fine one; she saved my life when I was young and had not a thought in my skull. I owed her much…much that I can never repay.”

He sighed deeply, his shoulders slumped. His eyes grew distant. “She just stopped visiting one day…I’d hoped she’d simply left for distant parts…but…now you tell me she is dead. I knew, I suppose. Deep down, I knew.”

Alex took a step forward. “I’m sorry,” he said “Losing a friend…well, it’s hard to find the right words for that kind of pain… I’m sorry you never got the chance to say goodbye to her.” He took a deep breath, considering his next words. “…I’m trying to follow Kelda’s legacy. I’m trying to alter the Mark, like she did. I also want to destroy the Ravener. It causes nothing but pain and destruction in my homeland. And…” He pointed to the Mark. “...I want to get my life back. All of it. Hannah—Kelda’s friend—blessed me, and I’m following in her footsteps too. I ask you, can you please tell me…did Kelda have a sanctum here in the north? She learned things that could save many lives, including my own. Please, I’m here to ask you to tell me where it is, if you know.”

Silence spread through the clearing.

Theresa stared at Bjorgrund, who glared back.

Claygon gripped his war-spear.

Brutus growled.

Alex held his breath.

Then the old giant finally sighed. “I don’t know where her sanctum is. I know it existed, but she never told me where it was—”

Hope shattered in Alex’s chest like glass.

His first lead, one that had seemed so promising, had come to nothing.

The old giant continued talking.

“But, I do know how you might find it,” the firbolg said, eyeing the cerberus, golem, and huntress. “Are you all warriors?”

Hope rose in the young wizard’s soul. “Yes, yes we are!”

The centuries old giant gave him an odd look. “Alright, if that’s so…then I have something I wish to ask of you. Do this for me, and I will tell you where you might go to find the path to Kelda’s sanctum. As you might have guessed, I am Birger.

Please, come inside, we have much to talk about.”

He paused.

“And bring those deer with you.”