Mark of the Fool

When he was a young child, Saint Merzhin of Thameland sincerely believed that he had been born for one purpose.

To serve Uldar.

He grew up in the church, raised by priests and priestesses, and lived among other children. The young boy had slept on a thin cot, ate simple meals and spent most of his waking hours learning scripture, telling Uldar’s stories, labouring for the church in the kitchens and fields, and worshipping Thameland’s silent god.

Uldar was his life, his soul and his future.

And he had never rebelled against that life.

He had grown up feeling loved—though he was often quite lonely—and loving his god in return.

When he had been blessed with the Mark of the Saint, it had truly felt like his life’s purpose and its promise were all coming to fruition. The Mark of the Saint appearing on his belly had felt like the ultimate gift, like Uldar’s acknowledgement of his faith and his confirmation of Merzhin’s life purpose.

He had believed—beyond a doubt—that his every breath had been taken solely to bring him to the moment he was Marked, so that he might serve Uldar in the most profound way he could.

Over time, though, his joy had faded in the face of growing loneliness when the other Heroes had abandoned him. In the face of resentment at being left out of their discussions. In the face of his anger when Carey would not embrace Uldar in the way he thought she should.

…everything he felt had turned to sheer horror when the events at Uldar’s Rise had happened.

…and because of his actions, his only friend had died, villains had escaped, and he’d been forced to realise that his sacrifices, since childhood, had been for nothing more than a long dead corpse.

He’d been devastated; beyond grieving his friend, beyond accepting his guilt in her death, he had to come to terms with one simple truth; that his entire purpose had largely been for nothing.

All the faith that he’d been clinging to in every moment of his life had done nothing but empower the silent throne of a poisoned corpse.

And—when he thought that thingscould get no worse—he’d come to know that Uldar had created the Ravener. Not only was the object of his worship a corpse, but when he was still the Thameish people’s living god, he had engineered the very thing that was responsible for uncountable deaths over generations in Thameland.

And adding insult to injury, he’d learned that Uldar’s motivations for creating the Ravener were the desperate attempt of a dying, angry deity, only to prolong his own life. A dying, angry deity that—in his last moments of lucidity—had decided that culling his people, using the horror of his construct, was what was best…for him.

That had been the focus of Merzhin’s faith.

That had been what he’d let his friend die for.

That had been what the supposed purpose of his life had been.

Life had gotten much darker after that, and he’d sought a way to make his pain end; a way that might somehow undo his own sins and those of his god.

But, Alex and his companions had pulled him from despair, and given him direction…and he was very glad that they had.

Because now?

Now he was here to see what his life’s purpose truly was.

The Saint of Thameland was on his knees before the divine ward blocking him from Uldar’s throne. To his left stood Alex, protecting him from attacks, and helping him in any way that he could.

Behind him—with both warm hands pressed to his back, the Traveller’s divinity pouring through her touch—was the transcendent soul of his closest friend, Carey.

Together, both were supporting him, pushing him, granting him the strength to fulfil what he had concluded was his life’s real purpose.

To tear down this divine wall.

To shatter the throne of a cruel and long departed god.

And Merzhin would do whatever it took to fulfil his purpose.

And so he prayed: “Traveller…and even the departed soul of Uldar, hear me. Hear now my testament. Hear now my prayer. For these are the words of the last Saint of Uldar. There will be none after me.”

His words held power.

He could feel their certainty and strength as they resonated from his throat. The air shuddered at their weight, and the faith flowing through his soul focused like sunlight passing through a glass lens.

The power of two divinities—that of the dead god Uldar, and that of the newborn goddess, the Traveller—channelled through his soul with every syllable, building in power with his prayer.

The might of the divine strength passing through his soul gate was staggering; his Mark’s evolution and the meditation techniques he’d learned from the General were keeping his soul from shattering like glass.

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But, despite his Mark’s evolution and the meditation techniques, his soul still ached from strain; Aenflynn had saturated his ward with divine power, and it would not be broken easily.

But Merzhin would break it.

He believed that each step of his life had been building to this moment.

And he would not falter now.

Not like he had at Uldar’s Rise.

It was as Carey had said: it was not about can, it was about must.

“The last Saint of Thameland declares this,” Merzhin continued. “Let it be known that I speak the following words with both the authority and divinity granted by the Traveller and the memory of Uldar’s early days wherein—despite his motives—he did help Thameland. It is in that lost legacy and in the new dawn brought by a new deity that I say…”

His soul trembled.

Divinity sparked in it, shaking the very foundations of his being.

“I hereby declare that this wall be ripped down. That the ward brought about by this thief of the divine is blasphemy to the good deeds that Uldar did and to the good deeds that the Traveller has done, and will do. I abjure this ward!”

His voice rose through the air, shaking the room they were in.

Before him, he felt the divinity in the ward fluctuate…shifting slowly, but surely. He risked a glance to his left and spotted Alex, their eyes met and Merzhin’s face contorted with effort and concentration.

He risked a quick glance behind him.

Carey was there, with her wings of chaos flame and a halo above her head, her eyes were closed and her face serene.

The Saint nodded once and glared at the divine ward before him, his anger plain.

He made a grasping gesture toward it.

“By the word of the last Saint of Uldar, by the power of the Traveller and by the good deeds once done by a selfish god, I hereby smite this barrier!”

Divine power shot from his soul like a thunderbolt, filling the chamber with blinding light. That radiance gathered in his hand, forming a hammer wrought from pure divinity.

It blazed with boundless power, and his skin was scalded at its touch.

But the Saint did not care.

He rose to his feet, firmly holding the hammer of divinity.

Carey and Alex moved back.

Saint Merzhin, the last Saint of Uldar, took the hammer in both hands, lifting it above his head…

…and swung hard, right into the divine ward with great force.

The sound that followed was like one world colliding with another.

All of Och Fir Nog shook with it.

Merzhin’s soul throbbed.

His teeth clenched.

And the barrier remained firm.

“Again!” he shouted. “I cast you down!”

He swung the hammer of divinity, crashing it against the divine ward, shaking the fae realm once more.

But now…a thin crack rippled across the divine ward.

“That’s it!” Alex cried.

“We are getting through!” Carey shouted.

Merzhin lifted the hammer again, his thin arms shaking from the effort as shockwaves from the terrible forces he commanded took a toll on his body and soul.

But, it was not about if he could do it.

“I must,” he whispered, then raised his voice again. “Begone!” he commanded, swinging the hammer again.

Another crack webbed through the ward.

He was panting now.

Sweating.

His thin arms shaking.

And his soul, in pain.

Frustration surged. He could not exhaust all of his strength just trying to get through this infernal wall. He still needed reserves to break the throne and put an interdiction on the Ravener, to help keep it from returning.

If he exhausted himself just getting through this filthy barrier, then what good would that do?

“I have to break it…” he whispered. “I must…” He paused, looking at a crack, considering it carefully; it was an opening, one that led through the ward. A tiny, insignificant crack, that would hardly admit the wind, let alone even the smallest, most humble insect.

But then again, it was a crack wasn’t it?

A gap.

He pointed at the tiny fissure, then looked at Carey and Alex.

“Can you get us through that crack with the Traveller’s power?”

They looked at each other.

The spirit smiled serenely.

The young archwizard gave a triumphant grin.

Both took the Saint by his shoulders.

And teleported him through the crack in the divine ward.

Merzhin appeared on the other side with his two companions supporting him.

“By the Traveller…we are through! We are through!” he cried.

“Yes we are!” Alex shouted.

“At last,” Carey said, her eyes watching Uldar’s throne. “And now we can do what must be done.”

“Indeed,” Merzhin said. “It is time.”

He looked upon the throne of Uldar.

The white chair rose before him, immense, majestic.

From it, the god of Thameland had ruled his mortal kingdom both in health and in his days of sickness. It now was the focus for all the faith conferred on him, and for the divinity he once wielded.

A symbol of Thameland.

A symbol of Uldar.

A symbol of the pain that the god’s self-serving decisions had caused.

Merzhin slowly walked toward the chair, taking in every curve, and every line, his eyes drawn to the black ichor staining its white surface. At one time, this chair would have symbolised the purpose of his life.

But now?

The purpose was to unmake it, the very thing that once defined him.

And unsurprisingly…that thought put a smile on his face.

St. Merzhin spoke to his best friend. “Might I have your help in this, Carey?”

She too looked at the throne, her expression a mixture of regret, conviction, and serenity. “There was a time when I would have done everything in my power to stop what we are now about to do. If only my faith had been well placed and had been put into something that was worthy of it.” She sighed, then smiled. “Such things are terribly sad, but they are in the past. We must move forward. Of course I shall help you, Merzhin.”

“And if that filthy fae shows up,” Alex offered. “I’ll make sure to keep him off your backs.”

“Thank you, Alex,” Merzhin said calmly. He exhaled, his eyes on Carey. “Please place your hand on the throne.”

She nodded silently.

Merzhin moved to the left side of Uldar’s chair.

And Carey moved to the right.

They rested their hands on the throne, and the Saint spoke:

“I am the last Saint of Uldar, and the highest authority in the church of Thameland. Uldar’s reign has ended and his symbols should end too. As the highest divine authority in the kingdom, it is my duty to declare the direction of the god’s faith and to command his artefacts. As such, I declare this seat to be no longer needed. Uldar’s reign has ended and his symbols should end with him. No longer shall this throne be the focus of Thameish faith in him. No longer shall it channel his divinity. With the authority of Uldar and the power of the Traveller, I declare this symbol undone!”

Divinity surged from his soul, joining Carey’s power and channelling into the throne.

The entirety of Aenflynn’s castle began shaking and rumbling around them like the voice of an angry god.

There came a sound like thunder.

“With the authority of Uldar and the power of the Traveller, I declare this symbol undone!” Merzhin cried again.

The divinity within the throne recoiled, roiling and fraying.

“With the authority of Uldar and the power of the Traveller, I declare this symbol undone!”

The castle bucked.

There came a sound like a glacier splitting.

A crack began forming along the throne, the light of inner divinity blazing through it.

Aenflynn, lord of Och Fir Nog felt the chill of death crawl up his spine.

He whirled on his castle, watching it shake, down to its very foundations.