Mark of the Fool
Chapter 708: The March

“Hah! Look at them run!” Bjorgrund laughed, sticking his tongue out, his blue eyes squeezing shut as he pointed at the tall figures disappearing in the blowing snow. “A few words and they turn craven. Would you look at that, father! They call me the animal, but they act like scared little mice!”

“Calm yourself, son,” Birger said. His voice was flat, but he couldn’t hide the grim smile growing behind his beard. “The more you provoke them, the more likely they’ll try to do something to you.”

“They won’t come back here, no way.” Bjorgrund grinned evilly, slapping Alex’s back with an enormous hand.

The blow knocked the air from the young wizard’s lungs, nearly sending him sprawling face down in the snow.

“This one here, look how his words slash their fake bravery like knives! They’re spineless, they’ll be too scared to come back here! Not after a threat like that!” Bjorgrund jumped in the air, pumping his fists. “Thank you!” He lowered his head to Alex. “I owe you again, and I’ll be happy to pay my debt!”

“You’re welcome…” the Thameish wizard gasped, catching his breath.

‘Why do I keep making friends with giants that could break me in half with a single hand?’ he thought, looking down at his hulking body. ‘And I’m not easy to break in half!’

“You have my thanks, too.” Birger gave Alex a deep bow, balancing on his crutch, then looking at Bjorgrund. “Don’t start celebrating yet, son. They might not trespass on our land anymore, but they’ll be on the lookout for you. If you step off our territory for any reason, you can be sure they’ll set upon you without hesitating.”

His expression darkened. “They might even try to drive game away from our borders to force you to leave the protection of the ward.”

“I’m not afraid of them,” Bjorgrund said, his voice firm.

“You should be. You are growing into a fine warrior, but Olaf is a powerful foe to have. He will kill you if you two meet in battle,” Birger said.

“I’m wondering if you should strike first,” Theresa said, glaring in the direction the firbolgs went. “If those warriors are going to do something as dirty as driving away your food so you starve, then better they be gone. Or dead.”

Birger shook his head. “The village needs its warriors to defend it from the rune-marked, the Irtyshenan army, and the beasts of these woods. Even if you help us strike first, we’ll be dooming the old, the weak and the very young to slow deaths from starvation or more gruesome ones at the blade of enemies, or the jaws of some beast.”

“Hmmmm.” Alex tapped his chin. “What if you expanded the ward? They know where your borders are now, but they’ll have a harder time driving away game if you expand your territory. They’d have to figure out where the boundaries are, and if you make the ward big enough, they couldn’t just blockade your whole territory; there’s not enough of them for that.”

Birger shook his head. “I’m no expert at ward making, and I was already at my limits for the amount of land I could ward at one time.”

“Hmmmmm.” Alex’s brow furrowed in thought. “We’ve got a couple of days until you’re ready to go to the capital, right? Back in Generasi, I can try and cook up the kind of ward that’d stop a demon lord from getting to their own throne. And if I can’t, I’ll find someone who can. How does that sound?”

“Thank you,” Birger said.

“Don’t mention it; I’m not going to kick the hornet’s nest and then leave you to deal with it. Then, everything’s settled,” Alex said. “Theresa, Claygon, Brutus and I will head back south. I can use the time getting the ward figured out, then when we come back here in a couple of days, we can set the new ward. Think you can hold out until then?”

Birger nodded. “I’ll repair the ward and change its focus to Olaf and the rest of the clan. By the time I’m done, it’ll keep him, the rest of the clan and the rune-marked out. I’ll have trouble blocking the Irtyshenans too, but we’ll have to live with that.”

“When I get that ward, I’ll make sure that it can block the Irtyshenans too, unless they bring out some really powerful magic,” Alex said.

“Thank you. And now there’s only one thing left to deal with.”

“What’s that?”

“The meal,” the firbolg laughed. “That poor roast needs some loving I’m sure, but it should still be fine eating, even if it is a bit on the dry side. I’ll see you all fed before you go.”

Theresa grinned. “I wouldn’t say no to that.”

“Me neither,” Alex said.

As Bjorgrund and Birger made their way inside the cottage—a noticeable lightness about them—Theresa tilted head and kissed Alex on the cheek.

“That was one of the most attractive things you’ve ever done, and that’s saying something.” She smiled. “You really are a hero from legend.”

“Hah!” he laughed, a blush spreading across his cheeks. “I don’t remember hearing any legends about me.”

“Keep it up and you will.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Alex said. “I just wish that I was actually half as threatening as I sounded.” He looked down at the Mark. “I’m hoping I can change this jester’s face soon; we’ve got enemies out there and I doubt they’ve forgotten about us. We got rid of those rune-marked—and we’ll help burn their bodies before we go—but what if more come? Or if we find ourselves up against a bunch of golem knights? Or worse. Whatever comes, I’d be able to face it better as the General.”

“Remember to stay on the road, my pretty little hounds!” the Stalker called.

Astride his moose, he kept an even pace along the grey road, the mount’s bells jingling cheerily. “This path ain’t exactly as friendly as what you might be used to!”

Behind the bearded fae came a column of mortals, all clad in white robes, armoured and girded for war. Steel helms shone on most heads, and the banners many carried fluttered in the wind.

The white hand of Uldar marked every robe, banner, shield and tabard, proclaiming loyalty to their god.

Rain fell in sheets, turning the fae road to mud.

Though muck clung to their boots, it did not cling to their spirits.

A hymn rose, springing from faithful lips—Hail Uldar, Holy King—the song filling the grey, mist shrouded woods that ran along either side of the fae road. Holy melody wove together with the clinking of armour, the sound of wet boots against muddy ground, horse's hooves that bore mounted priest-knights gripping weapons infused with Uldar’s divine power.

Packhorses were not tasked with carrying holy warriors, but rather casks of soil instead, harvested from the ruins of Uldar’s Rise then twice blessed by the First and Third Apostles. Much of the hidden church’s remaining might were gathered together, marching to war in a bitterly cold and foreign land.

A war with one man who was their enemy.

Gabrian and Izas marched at the head of the columns; their steel plate inscribed with holy scripture, white surcoats emblazoned with Uldar’s hand, and with eyes that were fixed on the path ahead.

They glanced neither backward at the warriors following faithfully at their backs, nor to the past that had brought them to this grim road.

They joined the column in song, while bending their thoughts to war.

The Stalker threw them a jaunty grin over his shoulder. “You’re sprightly for mortals as old as you!” he chuckled. “We’ve been marching for days, and you don’t tire.”

“Mighty are they who have Uldar’s grace,” Izas said. “We would march a thousand days into the fires of every hell with his divine backing.”

“Ah yes, Uldar, Uldar, Uldar,” the fae said. “You know, I think I’ve heard that name more in the last three months than I did in the three centuries before that.”

“Praise is given to our god and saviour.” The glowing scales, embedded on the former Chosen’s forehead, illuminated his face with brilliant light. “He empowers us, and so we praise him.”

“Using your divinities to give yourselves greater endurance and strength, eh?” the Stalker reasoned. “What good little hounds I have.”

Neither Third nor First Apostle replied to these words, simply falling back into song.

For a time, the Stalker turned his eyes back to the road, watching the trees carefully. He had paid a great deal in what he preferred to call ‘road tax’ to guarantee that he and his hounds were not accosted on these roads, but he still had to remain cautious, they were now in foreign territories after all, far beyond Lord Aenflynn’s domain.

They should be safe…but one could never know for sure.

“We shouldn’t be much longer in this perfectly named Grey Forest,” the Stalker frowned. “The Fields of Silver come next, then the Lake of Ever Ice. Past that, we should be near the area where our quarry’s been poking about.”

He licked the air, tasting his prey’s name. “Yessss…he’s there now, hopefully he’ll stay there; twice now, he’s gone to that lovely cold place, which makes me believe he’ll go back there, even if he leaves again for that wizard city he lives in.”

The fae looked at the casks of soil loaded across the backs of the packhorses and scrunched up his face in distaste. “You know, we’d be a lot farther along if you didn’t have me sneaking about Uldar’s Rise—avoiding those sharp eyed wizards—and gathering barrels of dirt. Why d’you need all that soil, anyhow?”

The First and Third Apostles looked at each other.

Izas raised his eyebrows.

Gabrian nodded.

The Third Apostle explained. “The Fool is supported by a power that lets him teleport great distances without chanting any spells or using any magical items; the same power that strengthened the treacherous Carey London. The same power that allowed her spirit to come back from the after-world.”

“That power must not only be countered,” Gabrian added. “But it is one of the core reasons why the Fool must die first.” He gestured to the forest. “Your guidance and secret paths through your fae wilds allows us to cross vast distances at beyond mortal speeds. What would normally take weeks or months of travel across snow-locked lands and icy seas in the material world, can be done in days here.”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” the Stalker said dryly.

“I was about to thank you, do not fret. Uldar would not have his First Apostle lack gratitude. I thank you for your guidance, my friend,” Gabrian said. “But the fact remains that the Fool can travel hundreds of miles in mere moments, by your reckoning.”

“Judging by how his name keeps jumping across land and sea in a heartbeat, aye. That’s what’s been happening,” the Stalker said.

“He’s grown stronger since last we clashed,” Izas says grimly. “We must cut the weed down before it grows taller. Such power will aid all of Uldar’s enemies, allowing them to escape and strike at will.”

“And such power would allow the Fool to elude our grasp wherever and whenever he wishes,” Gabrian finished.

“Aye, I’ve been thinking about that,” the Stalker said with a merry chuckle. “It’s what makes him so delicious to hunt. Can’t wait to have his head mounted on my wall—Oh come on, don’t look so disgusted!” he cried, noting the Apostles’ grimacing. “You’re planning to cut his head off, aren’t you? I’m just making sure it doesn’t go to waste.”

“Very charming, but what makes him a fine challenge for you, will also hurt our chances to bring the Fool low.” Gabrian glanced at the soil. “Which is why I have been searching for solutions.”

“Aye, what might those be?”

“I have spent much time contemplating the power that the Fool wields, which is the same power that was behind Carey London,” the First Apostle said. “I believe I have some understanding of it; so I will bar it with an interdiction.”

“Aye, you’re meaning the ability that gods grant their most powerful servants, aye?” the stalker asked. “Very dangerous stuff, that. But how’re you planning on using an interdiction in a foreign land against our quarry? We’ll not be in your god’s divine realm, don’t you know? Uldar’s not a god of the Irtyshenan Empire and wouldn’t have the power to declare interdictions there.”

Izas’ eyes flicked to the packhorses. “His power extends to places that have known his touch and are sanctified in his name.”

“Oh…oh!” the Stalker cried. “I see! Clever, clever hounds! But…hold now, the place we’re going has its own gods. And they won’t take kindly to what you’ll be doing.”

“Even a god as powerful as Uldar cannot sense every enemy within his realm or be in all places at once. If so, he would need neither his church, us, or his holy Heroes to fight for him,” Gabrian said. “What we do will have to be done quickly; we cannot linger, nor can we engage the Fool in a pitched battle. We must strike from the fae roads, slay him and—if he proves too resilient to die quickly—we wound him, then retreat back to the fae wilds before we are located.”

“Very clever, I like it.” The Stalker grinned.

“I will like it once I see if the plan works well,” Gabrian said. “We can only pray to Uldar for guidance. For strength. And for the Fool’s death.”

The hymn to their god continued echoing through the forest.

The hidden church and the one known as the Stalker, moved forward, closing in on their quarry.

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