Mark of the Fool

Alexander Roth, General of Thameland, floated through the skies over Greymoor sipping a glass of cool apple-lemon cider as he watched the sunrise.

The warmth of a summer wind tousled his hair, and the scent of his drink filled his nostrils.

He listened to the sounds of birds chirping nearby.

He listened to the rustle of the trees below him.

And he mostly listened to the sounds of Ravener-spawn below.

Alex looked down.

“I guess, I should be calling them Claygon-spawn now, not Ravener-spawn anymore, or something like that,” he whispered.

Below, a horde of Earth Tillers—that’s what he and Claygon had dubbed the enormous earthworm-like monsters—crawled over the moors and forests, consuming great swaths of blasted earth, and spitting out fresh soil laced with sprouting flora.

It had taken Claygon a long time to create enough Earth Tillers to form a horde this size…but fortunately, they could afford the time now.

Three months had passed since Alex and his companions had destroyed the Ravener, and in that quarter of a year, many changes had occurred across the kingdom.

Significant and wonderful changes.

Alex watched the moors.

In the last three months, Claygon had worked with the wizards of Greymoor and the Thameish army to rebuild the land. His misty Ravener-spawn—Fog Cleansers, he had named them—had washed over Thameland, cleansing it of mounds of ash, acid and rotting bodies that tainted the wilderness and waterways. The Thameish army had roamed the land as well, gathering putrefying corpses.

They had buried their dead and burned fallen spawn on great pyres, smoke had filled the Thameish skies for weeks.

With their allies bodies cleared away, the great rebuilding had begun.

Claygon’s growing army of Earth Tillers had spread across the lands, enriching and healing the earth. They would sweep over lands covered in fire-blasted rock, soot and collapsed dungeons and—as they moved on—flourishing fields, forests and waterways had sprung up instead.

Members of the Thameish army followed behind, always on the lookout for Ravener-spawn that might have survived their master, but, thankfully, none were ever found. But just as the Ravener’s spawn had been decimated, so had many of the towns and villages dotting the countryside. The soldiers had gotten to work, rebuilding more of their homeland.

As the land had healed, King Athelstan had allowed the Thameish people to return, and they’d returned in droves, eagerly rebuilding and reclaiming their homes.

Alex shook his head, remembering those chaotic days after the final battle.

There had been so much to do.

First, there had been the Ravener’s remains to safeguard. He’d soon returned to the lair and quickly teleported the black sand-like essence to a secure spot, dividing it up and storing it in individual vaults. There, it would remain, ready for the Ravener’s slayers to claim it at their leisure.

After that, Alex had compensated the mercenaries from the Whetstone tavern as agreed, then offered them his deep and abiding gratitude. The mighty warriors were also thanked profusely by the Thameish army, and had stayed on, feasting and sharing a few kegs with the soldiers for a full three days before departing.

When it came time for Alex and Baelin to return them to the tavern, the mercenaries had gladly collected their gems and glory, and had bid the soldiers goodbye with laughter, hugs and claps on the shoulder. The mercenaries of Whetstone shared no common languages with the Thameish army, but friendships had been forged through the trial of battle.

Those friendships needed no tongues in common.

When Alex and Baelin had dropped them off on the tavern’s stoop, Kyembe had gone inside with a wave and a smile, Ezerak had stepped in with a nostalgic and relieved air, and the small Wurhi of Zabyalla—who’d seemed like she’d aged twenty years—had scurried in as though her life depended on it. The other mercenaries had followed right behind.

“Too bad she lived through the battle,” the chancellor had grumbled as soon as the tavern door closed.

Within heartbeats, the entire building vanished.

Meanwhile, the soldiers of Thameland still talked about the mysterious mercenaries to this day.

But only in the fondest of terms.

The mercenaries’ departure had been relatively minor compared to the second event that had taken place shortly after the final battle.

Alex, the Heroes, the king and the high priest had spent days discussing what they would do with Uldar’s body, and what they would and would not tell the people.

Things had gotten heated at points, but—eventually, they had come to a consensus:

“We, unfortunately, cannot rid ourselves of Uldar’s legacy at this time. The people will need the church in the coming months and years as we rebuild and move forward, and to reveal Uldar’s treachery now would mean inviting chaos when we need union and order. Further, I do not want him to even be remembered as a villain to be cursed, or as a bogeyman to frighten children. I want him forgotten,” the king had emphasised. “But let us have our cake and eat it too. We will tell one part of the truth: we will say that Uldar is dead. I propose that we say that he perished in the final battle against the Ravener, and that the Traveller will inherit his mantle as the goddess of Thameland. To prove this, we will have a funeral for the bastard.”

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He had frowned. “The only trouble is what we will do with the body afterward. From my understanding, it is hard to destroy, but we do not want his final resting place to become a location of pilgrimage. My hope is that Uldar will be slowly forgotten as the generations move forward, with the Traveller replacing him in people’s minds, thoughts and souls. But what do we do with the wretched body?”

Alex had thought about that for a moment. “I might have an idea.”

And so the king’s messengers had carried his words all across every garrison in Thameland, and to every Thameish citizen in the Rhinean Empire.

Those words were simple:

“Uldar has died. We will mourn him, and then we will give our faith to his heir.”

When the people had returned to Thameland by ship and by the Cave of the Traveller, the kingdom had held the funeral for the fallen god.

The city had been filled to bursting, and had displayed Uldar’s body—cleaned and dressed in white—in a casket of perfectly clear crystal.

High Priest Tobias Jay had made a declaration that carried across the city, speaking of Uldar’s sacrifice and how his heir would carry the kingdom forward.

Alex had spoken for the Heroes—who had joined him in the skies above Ussex for all to see—telling the tale of the final battle against the Ravener, and how Uldar’s Heroes and their companions had carried the day.

The King had made a speech about new tomorrows and solidarity, and about how the Traveller had wrested some of the Ravener-spawn away from their master. He had told the people not to fear them and that they would be aiding Thameland going forward, never harming it.

And finally, the Traveller and Carey had been formally introduced to Thameland, with Hannah speaking about her dedication to the kingdom as well as her love for the people.

After that, the funeral’s attendees had been allowed to approach and view the body: mostly to ensure that folk confirmed with their own eyes that Uldar was dead.

Then, once the last Thameish child had touched the coffin of the dead god, a blinding light had enveloped the casket. It had then shot into the sky, burning with the radiance of a second sun, before finally disappearing.

Tobias had quickly stepped in, calling it a miracle, and saying that Uldar’s spirit had reclaimed his body, and taken it to the after-world.

…It had been the biggest lie he’d told that day.

In reality, Alex and Carey had caused the light to surround Uldar’s coffin, then teleported it to his throne room.

A waiting Baelin had immediately cast a powerful spell, sealing the sanctum and making it next to impossible for anyone to rip open a portal to it.

Uldar would be left to sleep in eternal darkness.

In silence.

Unvisited.

To be forgotten in time.

Even now, his corpse remained there, hidden away while Carey and the Traveller moved across Thameland, helping the people rebuild their kingdom. Already, churches were being recommissioned in her name, her statues joining Uldar’s within the church walls until, due to purposeful neglect, his statues would crumble and be discarded.

As people prayed to her, she grew stronger and was a far more active deity than Uldar had been. Between her and the gold pouring into Thameland as Generasians sought to buy any scrap of dungeon core essence left in the wilds, the rebuilding was going well.

But that was not why Alex had come to Greymoor today.

For months now, he had been collaborating with Baelin, brewing the elixir of immortality, and all was going well.

Today, he’d come to the Research Castle to fetch some equipment he’d stored there; items he’d taken from Kelda’s sanctum to build the devices they’d used to poison and drain the Ravener.

That equipment would be very useful for the next part of the potion brewing process. Finishing his drink, Alex teleported the cup back to his dining table in Generasi, then took a final look over the moors before going to collect the equipment.

As he did, he noticed something below.

A small figure was waving at him.

“Who’s that?” Alex wondered.

He prepared to teleport to the waving figure’s side, wondering if it might have been Kybas.

But, when he reached the individual, the young archwizard jumped in surprise.

“What th—Gwyllain?” he said. “Is that really you?”

“It is. Greetings, Alexander,” the little asrai smiled up at him. “I was hoping I’d run into you. I wanted to express my gratitude if I ever did see you again. You’re a hard man to find. Glad you popped up while I was here visiting my bluecap friends.”

Alex gaped down at the fae. “Yeah, I’ve been pretty busy, all things considered…but no, seriously, what happened?”

The asrai’s green-scaled body was clad in a rich, well-tailored robe that looked to be woven of fine forest leaves, emerald vines, flowers and pure moonlight. Rings of silver, gold and prickle-free holly leaves were wrapped around each finger, and a truly enormous hat was sitting on his head.

Gemstones and golden laurels were stitched into the overstuffed hat, it had enormous butterfly wings for a brim, wrapped with a silk band that had a silver feather poking from it.

“Where did you get those clothes?” Alex asked, unable to hide his surprise.

Gwyllain chuckled. “From here and there. You’re speaking to an asrai of means now! You know, there was a time when I preferred to make sure I never saw you again. Too dangerous, you are. But now, I am glad to give you thanks.”

“Thanks for what?” Alex asked. “How’d you become an asrai of means?”

Gwyllain grinned. “Do you happen to know what’s going on in Och Fir Nog?”

Alex grew grim.

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

During the final battle for Thameland, some fae—that weren’t killed—who were part of Aenflynn’s army, quickly retreated back home. After that—apart from the occasional pixie in the woods—very few mortals had seen a single sign of the fae.

Alex hadn’t even caught a glimpse of one when he’d teleported back to the Ravener’s cavern to collect its remains, and although he and his companions had discussed possible attacks from Och Fir Nog—from warriors looking for vengeance after the death of their lord and the devastation of their realm—they hadn’t heard a whisper.

The General had been considering looking in on them at some point.

“So tell me, what’s happened? Are they preparing for revenge against Thameland?” Alex asked.

Gwyllain snorted, then threw his head back and laughed. “No! Are you mad? Do you truly not realise what you did?”

“Depends on what you mean,” Alex said.

“Well, I’ll tell you. You upended the whole realm! Buried the fae gates, killed a lot of the army, and then there was the whole ‘blowing up Aenflynn’s castle’ thing. His entire court went with him when the palace blew up, and most of his knights and soldiers too. All wiped out in a heartbeat.”

“Oh,” Alex said. “And your people aren’t looking for revenge for that?”

“Are you mad? What’d I just say! You blew up our lord and his castle! Nobody wants a fight with any of you!” Gwyllain shook his head. “All the little kinglings and queenlings forbade anyone from seeking revenge for fear of angering you mortals enough for you to come back and finish what you started.”

“Kinglings and queenlings?”

“Such as they are.” Gwyllain scoffed. He blinked. “Wow, you really don’t know what you did to Och Fir Nog, do you? Well, prepare yourself. It’s quite a story.”