Mark of the Fool

Being in four places at once meant keeping track of a lot.

In his homeland, Alex had been crushing dungeons, taking control of dungeon cores, casting Army of Heroes on everyone he met, and turning his controlled Ravener-spawn loose on their kin.

Inside the Ravener’s lair, he was fighting alongside his companions, countering the magic of Uldar’s creation as it grew increasingly agitated and desperate. While Claygon was inside the Ravener, Alex was blunting the hole he’d left by summoning monsters in rapid succession, sending them against the Ravener’s hordes of Spawn, and supporting his allies. He was using Mana to Blood repeatedly on Cedric, giving the Chosen more stamina, the red-haired young man needed to continually draw on his divinity to heal his companions.

Meanwhile, Alex was fighting a different battle inside the Ravener. While Claygon drew the construct’s attention, the young archwizard teleported from node to node, attaching the venomous devices to the Ravener’s crystals, syphoning away mana and poisoning the very essence of Uldar’s creation.

The more nodes he poisoned, the more frantic the Ravener’s counter-attacks were, and the more desperate its actions to stop him. Where before it had used waves of energy and death-beams against Alex and Claygon, trying to overwhelm them with endless armies of Ravener-spawn, now the construct had switched to more drastic tactics.

Howling with rage, the Ravener had filled the air inside its form with gases so poisonous and caustic, that they melted flesh with the lightest touch, destroying even its own Ravener-spawn in the process.

Alex had countered with control weather and tempest spells, blowing the acidic air away while teleporting from place to place, keeping ahead of the toxins.

Everything he’d done was affecting the construct, a good number of nodes were destroyed and the damage was showing; its accuracy was off and the amount of mana it could channel was falling.

But, these three places weren’t where the greatest changes were taking place.

While it wasn’t the area that was taxing him most, it was absolutely the one that needed his full focus. Things were changing fast.

One moment he was standing beside Merzhin, trying to think of a way to teleport and purge some of the divinity from the ward, the next, the Saint of Thameland had conjured a hammer of pure divine force, cracked the ward and was asking him and Carey if they could teleport him through it.

They not only could, but happily did, and without hesitation, the trio was through the barrier that had been so resilient to their magic and prayers. Merzhin and Carey had then touched the throne, channelling the divinity of both Uldar and the Traveller, and within seconds, their combined power was shearing the white stone of Uldar’s chair, revealing the blazing light of divinity shining like a star within it.

Alex was watching cracks spreading through the throne with held breath, while the castle quaked around them.

A massive explosion came from outside, bringing blinding light and a terrible shockwave with it, shaking the palace further, nearly throwing Alex off his feet.

He whirled, peering outside, yet unable to make anything out through the bright light out there.

“It’s Aenflynn!” Merzhin shouted. “He’s channelling a massive amount of divinity, more than a mortal should safely wield! Alex, can you see if Baelin’s alright?”

“It’s too bright for me to see anything clearly,” Alex said. “But I know he’ll be alright. He’s Baelin; it’ll take more than that shark-toothed bastard’s tricks to stop him. You just keep focusing on the throne; I’ll stay here and protect you in case he tries something to prevent you from destroying the throne.”

The young archwizard waited as Carey and Merzhin went back to their task. Cracks continued spreading through the chair, the castle’s shaking intensified, stone dust raining down from the ceiling and walls.

Alex reached out with his mana senses; he could still feel Baelin’s spells outside in the sky.

He brought his attention back to the throne, cracks continued growing, white stone heaving like a labouring heart.

‘Please be alright,’ he thought. ‘Please be alright, Baelin.’’

No sooner had those words crossed his mind, than an armoured figure streaked toward the window at breathtaking speed, shattering the glass pane.

Alex, Carey, and Merzhin whirled around in shock.

Baelin broke through the window, holding the struggling fae lord in a death grip.

“My young friends!” the ancient archwizard said cheerily. “It seems you are having a celebration. And such festivities call for…gifts.”

He held up the fae lord, still screaming into the archwizard’s hand.

“Here you go. Here is mine.”

The young archwizard’s jaw dropped.

“You got him… But, look at your chest!” He gasped at the damage to Baelin’s starmetal armour. “How are you alright?”

The chancellor laughed heartily. “Your concern warms my heart, Alex, but trust me. He is not up to the task of killing me.”

Alex looked at him closely for a moment; remembering how in the old stories, mentor characters often claimed to be alright when—in reality—they had taken a fatal wound but were hiding it.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Alex doubted that Baelin would lie about something like that.

Especially, since he could simply ask Merzhin to heal him.

He shook his head. ‘You’re distracted.’ His mind was working from four sets of sensory stimuli, even as different streams of consciousness were controlling his body in each of four locations. ‘The most important thing to focus on is…’

Alex grinned at the struggling fae lord. “Well, well, well…we finally meet in the flesh.”

“We should break him,” Merzhin snarled. “After what he’s done, I want to see him undone.”

“Yes,” Carey said firmly. “He must be punished.”

“Indeed,” Baelin said. “He is yours; after all, he is your enemy…he barely qualifies as mine. So I leave him to the three of you.”

With a single word of power, the chancellor conjured a chain of utter darkness between the fae’s teeth.

“No more whistling for you,” Baelin said. “You three should be careful with him. I am not sure of what other tricks he might have up his sleeve.”

“What should we do with him?” the Saint asked.

A sound like shattering glass drew their attention to the throne. The power Merzhin and Carey had wrought against it had succeeded nicely…it was clear that the chair was past the point of no return.

The white stone groaned like a dying beast as the light within it grew brighter. Cracks were consuming its entire surface, and pieces of stone were exploding from it. Beams of divinity were streaking out, shooting into the air as the divine ward crumbled, falling away into nothingness.

“We have to leave!” Merzhin cried. “It’s going to explode, and the devastation will be enormous! We can deal with him later!”

Suddenly, an idea struck Alex.

A wonderful and vicious idea.

An idea that would offer the highest degree of vengeance.

The young archwizard turned to Aenflynn, winking at the chancellor.

“You wanted that throne so much?” Alex said. “Then sit on it.”

Channelling the Traveller’s power, the General of Thameland reached out.

The fae lord resisted the energy and his mighty will might have held up, but he was in so much pain that even he could not resist Hannah’s energies.

Aelx teleported Aenflynn into the chair, focusing the power on keeping him there. The fae lord grew frantic, screaming into the chain as divine energy burned him, but each time he tried to escape he was instantly teleported back into the seat by Hannah’s power and the General’s will.

“Let’s go!” Alex shouted, touching Merzhin’s shoulder. “Back to where we first entered the fae wild!”

Together he, Carey, Merzhin and Baelin teleported out of the chamber.

Aenflynn sat panicking, struggling with the chain of darkness between his teeth, desperate to rid himself of his bonds. But he could not get free. The ruins of his jaws could not spit the chain out, he was not strong enough to break its magical links, and all the fae magics he’d tried on it simply slid from it like water off an oil-slicked surface.

The fae lord gave up on those things, but, frantically kept trying to escape from the distending, cracking seat beneath him.

Divine energy burned into him as the symbol of Uldar’s reign crumbled, releasing its concentrated divinity into the air. Beams of pure deific essence escaped from widening holes in the throne’s surface; piercing castle walls like spears of cosmic fire, the fae’s body, and all else around him.

He tried to fly away from the throne, only to be teleported back into it.

He tried to rise from the chair, only to find himself sitting back into it.

He tried willing the magics of his realm to free him, but an even mightier power kept him in the seat of his departed friend.

‘No, no, no,’ Aenflynn thought. ‘Not now! Not like this! My realm is at last free of its enemies! My reign cannot be halted like this! I will not be cast aside while others celebrate the victory I won them! I will not! I will—Agh!’

Beams of divinity pierced the Fae lord’s body, destroying most of his organs but—unlike that monster he’d fought in the skies—his were neither made of stone, nor locked away in far distant places.

When Aenflynn’s stomach and lungs were pierced, he bled.

The fae lord choked on rusty-liquid filling his mouth, his mind still working—still scheming—still trying to find some trick that would let him get away from here alive.

But as his mind worked…it unearthed an old memory.

One that gave him pause.

He had been in one of his most private chambers with the Stalker, and had been convincing the small fae to take on a job as his personal hunter and assassin.

To hunt down the Saint and the Fool…the very two people who had likely killed him.

And from that conversation with the old hunter, a certain exchange came back.

“It was as though we were seeing far distant shapes through a milky fog; but, with what we suspected was likely to occur, we sensed that we would get our chance,” Aenflynn had explained.

“A chance at what, m’lord?” the Stalker had asked.

“I will answer you this way; let us say you walked into this chamber,” Aenflynn had said. “And you were handed a glass of wine. But, better wine was being served only to those seated at this table.Let us say that you are more than satisfied with the wine you were handed. You think it is delicious. But the wine at this table? You know it is even more delicious, even though you have never tasted it.”

“How much better?”

“Well, I’d be curious about this mysterious wine, to be sure, m’lord.”

“Of course, so would anyone with blood in their veins,” Aenflynn had said smoothly. “But, alas, every seat at the table is full. What then?”

“Am I looking to make enemies of those at the table? Can I just take the wine?”

“No, and no.”

“Hmmmm.” The Stalker puzzled. “Well, I like my own wine. So I’d keep drinking that. Maybe I’d get the chance to drink the other wine at another time.”

“Of course you would. Your life is long, and opportunities await. No sense in starting a fight with someone filling a seat…but let us say…someone were to leave the table.”

“Ooooohohoho, now things are getting spicy! I can taste the cinnamon already.” The Stalker had clapped. “And am I invited to the table?”

“No.” Aenflynn’s eyes had flared brightly. “In fact, no one is. But someone might just sit in that chair. Or the chair could be removed completely, leaving one less seat at the table. What would you do then?”

“Of course, I’d grab the seat before anyone else could get to the table, or before it was taken away!” the Stalker had said.

Now Lord Aenflynn’s smile had turned sly. “Indeed. Of course that is what one would do…when there is an empty chair. Keep your ears open my friend, for my riddle is easy to solve. With the right information, the answer will fall into place.”

A sick irony rose in Aenflynn’s heart.

He did not know whether or not the Stalker had ever solved his riddle…but he did know one thing.

There was an empty chair left in Thameland; the most important empty chair.

One of the thrones of godhood.

Aenflynn had thought himself so clever; finding ways to manipulate the energies of that chair, bending them to his will and taking the seat for his own weapon. An opportunity to drink of a ‘wine’—a power—that only deities were able to ‘taste’.

And he had succeeded.

He had taken the opportunity.

He had taken the chair.

And now?

That chair—the one that belonged to his friend—would put an end to a life thathad spanned thousands of years.

A shudder went through Aenflynn’s heart.

The stone was bursting now, the divinity unmaking his body and stripping away his soul.

His last thought was:

‘Uldar died on this throne. My friend…died on this throne. And now, so shall I. I will have words with him in the after-world. This bloody chair is cursed.’

The throne ruptured.

Then burst.

Aenflynn, Lord of Och Fir Nog, was no more.