Mark of the Fool
Chapter 702: A Carving Knife Through Bark

A fire roared in the river rock hearth that dominated the cottage wall.

Inviting aromas of roasting venison seasoned with herbs drifted through the room.

Birger was seated at the head of his great table, the old giant was polishing a small—by his reckoning—tin cup. At his back, Bjorgrund tended the fire, the young giant’s head nearly scraped the gathering room’s ceiling when he stood upright.

“You must forgive me,” Birger’s ancient voice crackled like parchment. He polished the tin cup with a delicate touch before placing it beside one he’d already buffed until it shone like a mirror. Next, he reached for a pitcher, cleaning its lid with a soft cloth. “We don’t get many guests these days, even from among the smaller folk we’ve called friends for years.”

He looked at Alex and Theresa, sitting on a massive wooden bench to his left, their feet dangling above thestone floor. Behind them Claygon stood as still as a statue, his war-spear leaning against a wall beside the door. The golem watched Bjorgrund in silence.

Brutus sat on his haunches beside Theresa, three sets of eyes flicking from the giants to the door. The cerberus was alert, ready for violence.

Violence, though, did not seem to be coming.

Not for the time being, at least.

Bjorgrund was throwing suspiciousglances at his father’s ‘guests’, having said little since they’d come through the cottage door, nor was he displaying any threateningbehaviour. His discomfort was plain for all to see.

He fidgeted, shifting his weight from leg to leg as he turned the venison haunch on the spit.

His eyes regularly drifted to a great, stone axe propped against a beam near him, but Alex noticed no sign of his muscles tensing, preparing to lunge for the axe.

No hint of violence...not yet.

Only suspicion.

“The ‘guests’ that we do have to ‘entertain’ aren’t exactly…well behaved.” Birger pointed at the ceiling.

Suspended from rough hewn beams—between braids of garlic and bunches of dried herbs—were weapons, dozens of weapons. Some were finely crafted, engraved with detailed symbols and filigree. Others were crude, roughly made and looked like they were pounded into shape from pig iron. Some were sized for human hands. Others were too big for even Claygon to comfortably bear.

“I can see that you’re ready,” Alex said. “The ward…is that to keep these ‘guests’ away?”

“So you sensed my ward.” Birger finished polishing the pitcher, tossed the rag into a nearby barrel, and pushed himself to standing, balancing on his only leg. Reaching for his crutch, he hobbled across the stone floor. “Wait a moment. No sense in talking with a dry tongue.”

Bjorgrund looked at his father, watching the elderly firbolg fill the tin pitcher from a keg beside an oak counter laden with dried herbs, burlap sacks of grain, and cooking utensils.

The larger giant reached for his father’s arm as the old firbolg hobbled back to the table, but a single glare stayed his hand. The youth watched in silence as Birger poured two cups of mead, handing them to the guests.

Birger took a tall golden goblet from a nearby hook and poured himself a generous portion, raising the goblet, gazing at the shuttered window, before finally speaking: “To Kelda.”

“Er, to Kelda,” Theresa said.

“To Kelda,” Alex said.

Together, the two humans drank with the ancient firbolg.

The mead possessed a spicy, herbal flavour, lighting a fire on Alex’s tongue. It tasted neither foul nor unpleasant, but definitely took some getting used to.

“I placed that ward over this part of the forest some time ago,” Birger said, wiping foam from his beard. “Maybe about…” He looked over his shoulder. “How old are you again, son?”

Silence met the question.

“Sixteen winters in five months,” Bjorgrund finally answered, his tone tinged with defensiveness.

Alex’s eyebrows rose. ‘Fifteen? He’s even younger than I guessed.’

“Then it’s been eleven years,” Birger said. “Eleven years ago, I raised this ward to keep our enemies out, but I’m not the best wardmaker or magister around. I had to make it targeted to be strong which means that some other…types of ‘guests’ can find their way in. I’ve had to take care of them, but, on the rare occasion, they’ve almost taken care of me for good.”

He patted his stump, before grimacing in Claygon’s direction. “Those golem knights are trouble. One of them took my leg and killed half a dozen of our kin before Chief Olaf sent him to his grave. Now Olaf wears what’s left of that armour. Tell me, how is my miserablegreat-nephew, anyway?”

“Really? You’re related?” Theresa put down her cup. “I don’t see the resemblance.”

“He takes after the other side of the family. The nastier side, by my biased reckoning.” Birger gave her a disgusted grin. His teeth were surprisingly even and white, sparkling in the firelight.

“Uhm, he didn’t seem too happy when he was talking about you,” Alex said gently.

“He wouldn’t be,” Bjorgrund growled, stabbing at the venison with a cooking fork.

“Don’t stab the roast so hard, son, you’ll let all the juices run out and it’ll get so dry I’ll be coughing all through supper,” Birger chided.

“Sorry, father.” Bjorgrund’s shoulders slumped slightly.

“You’ll have to forgive my son.” The old giant took another sip from his goblet. “He’s the reason for the ward, you see. And that great-nephew of mine, the pig-headed fool, is the reason we live out here and not in the village.”

“It’s because of this.” Bjorgrund whirled, pointing to the red, glowing symbol on his chest. “I didn’t ask for it, but those bastar—”

“Language, son,” Birger warned.

“—those sons of—”

“Son.”

The young giant ground his teeth. “—our cruddy kinfolk,” Bjorgrund seemed ready to spit. “—don’t care that I didn’t ask. They just look at me like I’m some rabid animal. When I was ten, they wanted to put me in a pit like a dog.”

Brutus growled.

“My dog sleeps in a house, not some pit,” Theresa said, her voice like flint. “Well, he used to. Now, he sleeps inside.”

“Well, you treat your dog better than they want to treat me,” Bjorgrund snorted.

“Trust me, I know what it’s like to be branded with a Mark that you don’t want, didn’t ask for, and then get judged for.” Alex thrust a finger at his right shoulder. “This thing here? It controls what I can and can’t do, making it so that I can’t fight, do spellcraft or use divinity. So, then what does Thameland’s god expect? For me to go through the land fighting endless monsters and their regenerating master.”

Bjorgrund stared at Alex for a moment, then looked between his father and the young wizard. He slowly pointed at the rune burning on his chest. “This…is almost the opposite,” he said, his words mumbled and his tone awkward. “It keeps making me want to fight. Makes me angry. Tries to make me kill. Keeps whispering promises to me of more runes and more power.”

“Which is why we must have discipline and not let our emotions get ahead of us, isn’t that right, son?” Birger cocked an eyebrow at the younger giant.

“...yes, father,” Bjorgrund muttered, sounding dejected.

“That sounds like its own hell.” Alex chewed his lip, imagining Bjorgrund’s situation. “In some ways it sounds even worse than my Mark…if you don’t mind me asking, how did you get it?”

“Most rune-marked make the choice themselves,” Birger said. “They need to make an offering to that violent god of theirs…some sort of blood sacrifice and swear allegiance. But, sometimes their god just chooses someone.” The old giant nodded to one of the weapons hanging from the ceiling. It was a black-bladed sword, long broken in two. Its pommel was forged in the shape of a grinning demon’s skull. “Bjorgrund is not pure-blooded firbolg. His mother—may she rest—was a mountain giant from the east, we met in my wanderings. Things…happened, and I was left to raise my son on my own. He was mighty strong from even a babe—his mother’s blood and mine got on like wine and spices—and he grew quicker than most firbolgs. At five, he was bigger than you.”

Birger’s eyes narrowed on the sword. “A rune-marked warband came upon us in the woods when I was teaching him to fish and I couldn’t drive them off. I wasn’t young then…and I was also down to one leg. My magic was still strong, but they were quicker than this broken down body could handle.” He sighed. “When I was a young firbolg…by the gods, I was quicker than the wind, you should’ve seen me. But that’s all gone now. All gone.”

His jaw hardened under his beard. “But, the rune-marked still decided to make sport of us. I fought, but their blades were quick.” He looked at Bjorgrund with pride. “My son, at five years old, took up a rock bigger than his head and charged in to help me. The leader didn’t expect that and his head got smashed flatter than a flapjack…I suppose their god took that as some great deed, and my son was chosen. The rune burned itself into his young chest right there and then.”

“That’s terrible.” Theresa reached for Alex’s hand.

“How…many gods…choose people to serve them…against…their will…?” Claygon growled.

“Too many,” Birger lamented. “Too many. Kelda suffered in the same way,” he sighed. “She came here, to this forest, three hundred years ago. First she had gone to the rune-marked, and then—when they proved not so talkative—she turned to anyone in these woods who knew their lore. I was the skald for the clan at the time, and a wanderer as well. I knew more about the rune-marked than most anyone in the entire wood. She found me, after a time, and we became good friends.”

Birger smiled then…and something in the firbolg’s eyes hinted at them being more than just ‘good friends’.

“Why did she want to know about the rune-marked?” Alex leaned forward.

“Because, she thought—that by studying them—she could find a way to change her own Mark. The Marks might’ve been from different gods, but she wondered if there was something to be learned that could help her.”

“And what did she learn?” Alex asked.

“That, I’m afraid, she never said,” Birger said. “Kelda had the sort of charisma that you only come across once in a lifetime…even in a lifetime as long as mine. She made friends here, recruited from among the humans in Kymiland, myself, some other firbolgs, some of the elves and others from across the Irtyshenan Empire. Fashioned herself quite the group.”

“That’s incredible,” Alex murmured. “And did you all help her?”

“We did,” Birger said. “Though not together. Not always.”

“And what about her sanctum?” Alex asked. “You said you knew where to find the path to it.”

“I do,” Birger said. “Or I should. It has been three hundred years, after all.”

“I’ll gladly take any information I can get.” Alex clasped his hands, leaning over the table. “You said you wanted us to do something for you, before you agreed to tell me. What is it that you want? But, just so you know up front, I’m not giving you my soul.”

Alex glanced at his satchel hanging from a hook by the door. Val’Rok’s soulblade was inside, he hadn’t mustered up the courage to start using it on parts of his soul.

Yet.

Birger gave him a startled look, then burst out laughing, surprising his son.

“Oh, by the gods, you have her sense of humour!” the old giant laughed. “Of course, I don’t want your soul. I’m a giant, not some devil. No, what I want are your weapons and the arms that wield them.”

Alex and Theresa looked at each other.

“Who do you want us to kill?” the huntress asked.

####

“The rune-marked were here earlier, chief,” a firbolg hunter said, touching impressions in the snow. Behind him waited the clan chief and his honour guard. The party was surrounded by trees etched with symbols belonging to Birger’s ward. “They passed this way less than an hour ago. It looks like they were trying to break through the ward.”

“Which way did they go after their failure?” Chief Olaf asked, holding tightly to his axe handle. The honour guard eyed the trees as the hunter grunted in disgust.

“Toward the village.”

“Another attack.” Olaf blew mist from his nostrils. “How many times must we endure these assaults for that old man and that beast he’s raising? Come, we must return home and prepare our defences.”

“Yes, chief!” the honour guard chanted as one.

Together, they all turned toward the village.

All except the young hunter who had found the tracks.

He hung back for a time, eyeing the tracks.

His frown deepened. His jaw clenched.

And he drew his dagger.

Drawing on the magic within him, he imparted power to the blade, looked around…

…then drove the knife into the symbol on the tree beside him.

He felt it shift.

The tiniest split in the ward. He twisted the blade in the tree trunk, barely widening the crack…only…wide enough for a potent force to wedge its way into.

How many times must we endure these assaults for that old man and that beast he’s raising?

The chief’s words echoed in his mind.

The young firbolg smiled, satisfied.

“How about no more,” he whispered, stepping back from the tree to follow his kin back to the village. They had to prepare for the rune-marked’s attack.

An attack that would never come.

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