Mark of the Fool

Alex’s voice, deep and commanding, cut through the din of the tavern.

Grizzled mercenaries, ferocious warriors, and conquerors imposing in their jewelled armour, gave him their attention. Some faces were young, some old. Some bodies were hulking. Some lean. Their races and species were as diverse as their equipment.

And yet their eyes were the same.

Hard.

Piercing.

The eyes of veterans of many wars.

Their eyes told tales even their physical scars could not.

Most folk would have recoiled from those eyes, stuttering over their words and falling into nervous silences. But Alex Roth was the General of Thameland: a man who had stared down and clashed with powerful mages, greater demons and immortal warriors, leaving them broken behind him.

It would take more than these hard eyes to fray his nerves.

In a glance, he read the body language of the room: finding curiosity, scepticism, and suspicion. Each expression showed defensiveness, experience and pride.

Calling on the Mark of the General, he adjusted his approach to his audience.

“Mighty warriors,” he said, his voice sounding older than it normally did, with an undertone of both respect and authority. There was more than a little ‘Baelin’ in it. “I would like to begin by honouring all of you: after you finish this round of drinks, don’t worry, the next one's on me. And the next. And the one after that!”

The tavern was silent.

The warriors looked around, then raised their cups.

Many cheered the young archwizard.

Some, however, remained silent; the suspicion in their eyes only sharpened.

Alex couldn’t blame them.

“But, in return,” he floated through the air above the tavern’s tables. “I would like you to listen to my story,” Alex said. “A story that I’m hoping might be starting its final chapter. A chapter that I hope will involve you.”

Murmurs spread. In some, suspicion deepened. For others, it lessened.

Alex continued. “I come from a kingdom in a faraway land—” he was very careful with his words. “—and that land is plagued by an ancient enemy. Not a conquering tyrant or even a vicious dragon: something far worse. Something that has threatened the people of my kingdom for many thousands of years.”

Some of the mercenaries were nodding, others had turned to each other, whispering.

Some had begun to look uninterested.

‘How many times have you heard similar words?’ Alex wondered. ‘Well, I’m not going to work with words alone.’

He raised his hands and—with a twitch of his lip—conjured a massive illusion above the patrons. The Ravener floated in the centre of its army, an army that included the beasts Alex had seen in the dungeon core.

The young archwizard recreated the terrible vision in every murderous detail, showing the terror of the Ravener’s monsters and the destruction they left in their wake. Some of the tavern’s patrons recoiled, their mouths falling open. But, most simply watched, sipping their drinks.

“You have seen monsters like this before,” Alex said. “Good: because these are the creatures that plague my kingdom. They are ferocious. They are single-minded. And they are deadly. If they aren’t stopped, they will wipe us out to the very last person…but I’m not here to talk about fighting these monsters to save my people. No, because they‘re not your people. Yet, fighting this threat will be a glorious deed and a challenge for even the mightiest warriors—”

Several mercenaries sat up in their chairs.

“—you can’t feed yourselves or drink wine with glory alone. But you can drink and feast with these. Claygon?” The golem stepped up beside Alex and opened his sack, showing the mercenaries the gems.

Thousands of gems glittered, drawing the eyes of every warrior in the tavern. Now, he had their full attention—and this time—he felt no fear of being robbed. He was no longer the Fool who’d come here seeking mercenaries before, he was the General, and an archwizard.

“There’s enough stones in here to make all of you rich,” Alex said. “Each of you will get a sack the size of both of my fists.” He clenched his fingers in front of him. “In most places, that’ll buy you a king’s lifestyle for years. Or, it could be the seed funds for an expedition, the first pay for your own armies…or whatever else you’d want to use it for. And what I will need from all of you—”

He gestured to the illusion above him. “—is participation in one of the greatest, most gloriest battles of our time. You might never see my kingdom again after the battle’s done—since you all wander lands near and far—but understand that your deeds will live on long after most of us are dust in the wind. So, the truth of the matter is this, you will fight against fearsome monsters, gain glory, and have your names live on…all while getting rich. If you join me, that is.”

The mercenaries whispered to each other.

A chair scraped across the stone.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“I can vouch for this man.” Ezerak rose from the table. His tattoos seemed to ripple on his body. “He’s a good boss: pays well and quickly, tries to protect who he hires and brings back their bodies if they fall. I’m joining his cause and—if you know what’s good for you—you will, too.”

“We walked beside this man through the burning mazes of Cretalikon.” Kyembe added. “Together, we saw the city ruined and the demons made to flee before us. We slew Kaz-Mowang, Yantrahpretaye and Zonon-In while much of our company returned alive. When I asked him to hold my pay until a later date, he did so and gave me the full amount…part of which I used to buy your drinks.”

He gave them a resolute look.

More muttering passed among the warriors.

Growing excitement was in the air.

“What about trophies, wizard?” a hulking barbarian asked, his helm crafted from a crocodilian skull. “If I am to slay these fearsome beasts, I want trophies to carry to my mead hall! But you wizards are greedy, keeping all the best parts of monsters for yourselves and your strange rituals.”

“You can keep what you kill,” Alex told him. “If you wish for trophies? You can have them. If the monsters have loot? It is yours…though they don’t tend to carry coin. But, understand this, I am not the type to rob you of your spoils of war!”

There was a bang as the barbarian’s fist slammed on the table.

He rose from his seat. “You buy us drinks, you offer wealth, death and glory…wizard, you whisper temptations meant to capture the heart of any warrior with iron in their veins. I would have suspected that you weave a trap to ensnare us, but for Ezerak and Kyembe. They are stout of heart and sharp of wit: if they swear by you, then I will believe your words too! For the gems and glory you offer, I will fight under your banner. I am ready to join your cause!”

“As am I!” A spearwoman shouted, lifting her golden weapon.

“And I.” The hulking, four-armed warrior rumbled, his voice like two stones rubbing together.

Other warriors rose.

“For death and glory!”

“Wrath and ruin!”

“This will be a mighty doom!”

“For our enemies, perhaps!” Kyembe shouted.

Laughter and cheers rang through Whetstone.

“We have an adventure and pay!” called one man. “Let us drink before we go to battle!”

Roars spread through the tavern as ale, wine and liquor began flowing freely.

Alex landed beside Claygon.

“Looks like…it went well, father.” The golem closed the bag.

“It better have gone well. Do you know how much this is costing me?” Alex complained lightly. Inside, though, he was relieved. “Still, with this, we’ll have some of the best fighters wealth can buy on our side.”

“Yes…father…” Claygon said. “Which means…we can focus…on the Ravener…”

“Exactly,” Alex said. “We’ll have powerful warriors to defend Ussex, Alric and other towns in Thameland…”

He paused, frowning, glancing up as Kyembe and Ezerak joined the others in their drinking.

‘Is something…wrong? Father?’ Claygon asked mentally.

‘Honestly, buddy, while this is good—and it really is good—I can’t help but feel like we’re missing something. The Ravener’s been acting so erratically, we can’t even find it…it just feels like we’re missing something.”

‘You are…preparing for the enemy…’ Claygon said in Alex’s mind. ‘You’ve trained…the Heroes and our…other friends…You have come up…with different ways…to destroy the Ravener…we have all been working to get stronger…you are working on your…skill with Hannah’s…power…and you are…working to give her more strength…now we have these…powerful warriors helping us. I think it is all going…well…’

‘You’re probably right, buddy,’ Alex thought. ‘But even with all of that, I don’t much like the idea of the Ravener getting any advantage on us. If it starts escalating suddenly, increasing its effort to wipe out all of Thameland, then who knows how many lives’llbe lost if it gets to strike first. I’d rather we found it and hit it first.’

‘I know…father…but we will find it…and if we do not…’ Claygon gestured to the mercenaries drinking before them, ‘Then, thanks to you, Thameland will have…some of the strongest warriors…gems can buy…defending it…’

‘You’re probably right, buddy,’ Alex thought, patting the golem on the upper arm. ‘And that’s the best we can do until we find the damned—’

A hand—sporting an elaborate ring—waved in front Alex’s eyes.

The young archwizard startled.

“What? What th—” He looked at the grinning Kyembe, who was shoving a drink in his hand.

“My friend, your mind wanders behind a troubled brow,” the warrior-wizard said. “Bring it back. We are about to battle, and not even all the divines in existence can say whether we shall still draw breath by the time the last drop of blood strikes the earth. So take this time to drink with us. Drink as though the sky could plummet on our heads tomorrow. For it just might.”

“He…is…right…father…” Claygon touched Alex’s shoulder. “Get to know…the warriors…before we go back…to searching…and fighting…”

“Yes,” Ezerak said, sidling up beside Alex. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Besides, this lot are the type that trust their commanders and employers a lot more if they break bread and share wine together. They won’t fight as well for you, if you act like you’re better than them.”

“Fair enough!” the General of Thameland clapped, rubbing his hands together. “Then let’s drink together! Tonight’s ours!”

There was a shout of approval from every table near Alex.

Warriors—sitting farther away—had not cheered, but their body language relaxed somewhat and their heads nodded slightly. They had been watching, still assessing their new employer.

‘By the time you finish measuring me, you’ll march barefoot into the hells if I ask you to,’ Alex smiled, calling on the Mark of the General, focusing it on making good impressions and winning loyalty.

Then the General of Thameland stepped forward to drink and break bread with the newly recruited elite warriors.

For hours, wine, ale and cider flowed like water.

Kegs were breached.

An endless line of barrels were brought up from the cellar.

Bottles opened.

Laughter filled the air as cups were drained and toasts made. Soon, the games began: darts and knives were tossed at boards, steins were pounded back back and daggers danced between spread fingers.

Cards were gripped even as dice were rolled along tables.

By the end of the night, Alex had gone from one end of the tavern to the other, learning the name of every warrior in the Whetstone. The only table he did not visit was Baelin’s: the chancellor, elven dancer, beastfolk and Kyembe’s friend werehunched over the table, staring at their cards with bloodshot eyes.

The game had turned serious, but—from the smile on Baelin’s face—Alex knew the chancellor would be leaving the Whetstone with new stories and many more gems in his purse.

###

“You lost?” Alex’s shrill voice tore through the swamp.

Baelin grumbled beneath his breath, stomping along the wooden bridge. His fists clenched and unclenched and he spat into the swamp water below. “Lost is not the right word…annihilated is more accurate. I am shocked that I still have the clothes on my back.”

“Wha—bu—” Alex gaped “But, like…I…you’ve got so much experience—”

“I know.” The chancellor’s eyes shone in the full moonlight above them.

“You don’t lose at anything!”

“I am well aware.”

“But…I…” Alex mumbled. “How did you lose?”

Baelin slowly turned toward Alex. “The Zabyallan.”

“Who?” the young archwizard demanded.

“Your friend’s friend. Wurhi was her name,” Baelin said darkly. “I swear I shall never gamble with that wretch ever again. Not if I live for another hundred thousand years.” The chancellor looked at Alex sidelong. “Say…would it be possible to place her and her friend in the most dangerous area of the fighting? In a sort of…suicide mission, if you will?”

“No, that’s uh, probably not a good idea,” Alex said.

“Ah.” The chancellor sighed as though all the world’s weight was upon him. “Pity.”

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