Mark of the Fool

Chapter 739: Dying Screams

Alex Roth was screaming.

The energies of Kelda's machine were boiling through him, piercing his very soul with sensations unlike any hed ever felt before. Hed known pain and pleasure, endured hunger, angerand despair.

Hed borne the shock of a bane knife carving away bits of his soul.

But, what he was now experiencing was something else entirely.

There was no word, emotion or sensation he could think of, in any language hed learned, to describe what was passing through his body; his soul felt as if it was on the brink of combusting, smouldering, disintegrating. The sensation was beyond excruciating, deeper than anguish; like his entire being was on the verge of shattering.

He felt little pain, yet, there was a deeper suffering coursing through him that went beyond the physical.

He reached for every meditation technique hed ever learned, acknowledged that his soul felt like it was shattering. He was determined to let the sensation pass over him. It wasnt easy, but the stakes had never been higher; through a mix of will and utter calm, the Fool of Thameland pushed through.

Slowlyover what felt like hours, but couldn't have been more than a few secondsAlex grew accustomed to the feeling. He began to relax, allowing himself to be taken by the energies.

The incandescent light around him shifted, concentrating above his head. The lightshimmered, taking on the beginnings of a male form

that suddenly came into clear focus.

Alex had thought he was seeing a reflection of his body, but soon realised that wasnt the case.

That's not my reflection, he thought. It's my own soul. Theressomething else there toooh, by the Traveller

The young wizardrecognised the image looking back as the most enduring gift and curse hed been granted by Uldar on his eighteenth birthday; the Mark of the Fool.

It had appeared on his right shoulder on the night hed turned eighteen: a glowing, mocking jester's face. But his soul looked far different.

The Mark had completely permeated and enveloped it, surrounding it like a shirt fitted too tightly. He could barely make out his own face in the soul-image, as it was mostly obscured beneath the grinning jesters face. Something else stood out, intermingled with the jester.

Something older.

Indistinct.

A chill went through him as he now better understood why Kelda had failed.

The Marks completely integrated with my soul. he realised. It'd be impossible to free it without damaging my essence. The patchthere's no way to tell whats patch, what's original Mark, or what's actually my soul! If I start cutting blindly, Ill destroy myself like she did

He gripped the controls.

The scalpels twitched above him.

Alex set his jaw, carefully examining what he was seeing high above. But I have an advantage, I know how Uldars designs work and because of that I can see it! Im seeing parts that are necessary for the Marks design and parts that are redundant! Those extra parts have got to be the patch! I can do this!

Drawing on every bit of determination he could muster, he poured his power into the scalpels, slowly lowering the arms toward his body, watching as the blades broke his skin. All the while, he observed illusionary versions of the scalpels touching his soul in the image above the operating table. Another wave of suffering ripped through him, but months of carving his soul with ValRoks bane knife steadied him, keeping him from making a slip that would destroy his soul. He neither faltered nor stopped, the desire to be free of Uldars Mark driving him.

Fear could have taken over, stopping him, but he knew the church would never stop, no matter how much he ranuntil they finally caught him.

So, he pushed on, carefully feeling around his soul, focusing on the image above him, watching as Birgers tonic and energies of the Cage altered the colours of his spiritual essence and the Marks.

His soul now glowed bright silver, while the Mark shone like gold, yet he still could not differentiate between the patch, and the original Mark.

At least, not by sight alone.

But, from studying Uldars notes and harvesting bits of his soul

There, he thought excitedly. That's the first place I should cut.

Several scalpels entered his soul through his left leg, reaching deep, weaving through threads of what should have been the patch. He felt the Marks fibres grow taut against the charged bane knives.

The Fool took a deep, steadying breath, then slowly snipped the fibres, sending a sudden wave of shock through his body. For an awful momenthe thought he was dead.

Jarring, discordant waves pounded him.

The first one brought feelings of relief, then triumph, then freedom, the next brought desperation, agony, and rage; another soon followed, sweeping over Alex, smothering him with swirling images; the foolish grinning face of the Fool snarled down at him, bearing undisguised hatred, announcing its wrath.

Uldars wrath.

A litany of failures hit like a tidal wave; every error hed ever made, crowded his consciousness with a fury the Mark had never unleashed before.

Dizzying.

Crushing images.

Whirling through his mind.

Turning his stomach.

It's defending itself! The thought screamed in Alexs mind. Maybe cutting that fibre triggered it? But how? The Marks only supposed to activate fromspellcraft, combat, andoh no.

Divinity.

He was interfering with a god's work, encroaching directly on the divine while bathed in the machines multitude of energies, including mana and divinity.

That must've been enough to provoke it! he realised. Andoh shit!

More images struck. More failures. More horrors. But something was different now.

Those placesthosethings! Ive never seen them before! Never experienced any of that! HowOh no, another realisation. The evening of my eighteenth birthday, when I first got the Mark, I had all these images of places and things Id never seen before pour into my head. By cutting that thread, I probably reactivated whatever that was!

He saw himself in tears, standing on battlefieldsbut, it wasnt actually him, not Alex Rothbut, it was still the Fool of Thameland. Thousands of years of ridicule crashed down on him in a deluge. Fleeing from monsters. Shaming from other Heroes, whether Sage, Chosen, Saint or Champion, it didnt matter, most never hesitated in mocking the Fool.

He saw himselfthe Fooltrying to guide his companions on a ship.

He saw himselfthe Foolleading an army of Ravener-spawn, wielding two dungeon coresonly to be destroyed by the Heroes, the church and the army of Thameland.

He saw himselfthe Foolstart a successful business after the war had ended, only to be stabbed to death by a rivals hired thugs in an alleyway, unable to defend himselfbut, that time, it had been herself.

The sense of repeated deaths enveloped him.

The Fool had died starving in gutters. The Fool had died freezing in caves. In dungeons, ripped apart, then eaten by Ravener-spawn. Alex could feel every blade, every pang of hunger, every Ravener-spawn fang.

His mind began to break.

He could barely form a coherent thought; his meditation techniques were all that stopped his sanity from bursting. He clung to consciousness, forcing his eyes back to the image above him.

Distantly, he heard Hannah and Careys voices calling.

The Fool was either going to die, or his soul would collapse.

He should stop, but he couldn't, not now. Hed already damaged the patch; it would bombard him with his own failures, and the failures of every other Fool that it had ever insinuated itself on, right up until he came apart.

All he could do was just keep going.

Keep goingit'll workmust work Thoughts were barely forming. Have totry tothinkadaptthinkadapt

He focused on the image, gripping the Cages controls, pushing the bane scalpels toward the next section of the patch.

There he thought, just managing to hook the cutting edges into the Fools fibres.

He made another incision.

More waves of discordance.

Relief.

Triumph.

Complete hatred and pain.

Andfor a brief timethe Marks tide of imagesceased.

Alex Roth, the Fool of Thameland, regained his bearings, looking for the next place to cut. Not thereor therethat parts redundant too! There!

He hooked the scalpels into the fibres

The jesters face screamed silently, rage twisting it.

A new tide of memories slammed into him, these even worse than the last. In the space of one single heartbeat, Alex was gutted, blinded, crushed, broken and dissected repeatedly, dozens upon dozens of times.

He turned his head to the side and threw up.

His brain screamed.

But the scalpels were already hooked onto the fibres, they incised another one.

Another shock ran through him, this one the most intense yet; his entire body locked up, spasming, gagging.

New waves fell over him.

Feelings of freedom and relief.

Triumph and power.

Desperate rage, hatred, disdain.

But he could take no notice of them.

Where to cut next he thought. I have to get the scalpels in before the Mark reacts again. Its attacks are getting worse! Where? Where? There!

The scalpels pierced his left arm, right through the scar that Burn-Saw had given him. He was hooking the scalpels into the fibres

the Mark struck.

Despair gripped him.

Streams of death and dying returned, bringing him to the depths of anguish. Failures, both large and small: imprisonment, despair, betrayalall woven together in a perfect blending of torment designed to break his mind.

He couldn't take anymorehe couldnt

I cant do this his thoughts slowed. But, I somethingsdifferent. Its changed! Somethings changed!

The Marks attack came on, more brutal than before; the images increased, becoming more personal. Yet, not as vivid, not as overwhelming as minutes before, they felt more distant, not nearly as fresh, like memories fading with time. He understood what was changing.

It's getting weaker! he thought. I cut enough fibres to weaken it!

He immediately cut the next section.

The waves came again.

Freedom, ease and relief.

Triumph, pride and power.

Desperate rage, hatred, disdain, contemptand now, fear.

In that moment, Alex realised what the waves signified.

The feelings of freedom came from his soul, relieved as its bonds were slowly cut away. The feelings of triumphwere coming from the original Mark, finally reawakening after all these millennia.

And all of that desperate rage and fear?

That was the patch. That was the Mark of the Fool. That was Uldars will, fighting to keep itself from being destroyed.

I'm damaging it! he thought. If I'm hurting it, that means I'm doing the right thing! That means I can kill it!

He found the next section well before the Marks next attack came, and was already cutting it when a new wave of painful memories hit. This time, the Mark tried to bury his mind in a hundred lifetimes of failures at once, all playing out at the same time. It was determined to stop him, overloading his mindwith failure and shame, forcing his brain to comprehend millennia of memories in the space of an instant.

Had the Mark attacked with these images when hed made his first cut, his mind would've brokenbut those centuries of memories were foggy now. Indistinct. They were present, but not as insistent upon his attention; they could be ignored, he could guide his mind past them.

And he did, cutting the next thread.

A familiar shock raged through him.

Yet, his soul felt free.

Uldars original Mark roared like a beast almost free from its chains.

The Mark of the Fool looked down upon the Fool of Thameland, the hate-filled grin no longer twisting its face, replaced by an expression of sheer terror. The jesters image was unravelling, dissipating, splitting apart at the seams.

This is it, he thought. The patchs outline, I can see the difference between it, and the original Mark now! I can cut the last of the fibres all at once!

Bane scalpels slid into his body, hooking fibres on his soul. He felt them growing taut just before they were severed.

Above the operating table, the jesters face screamed.

A memory struck the young Fool of Thameland.

In the image heno, shewas in this very machine. It was the final memory of Kelda of Clan McCallum, a former Fool of Thameland. She was filled with anger and confusion as she tried to choose where to cut. Her assistants were watching through the bars surrounding her, they were all shouting.

Her souls energies were collapsing, rupturing.

She felt a mind sensing hers in her agony. It was Hannah, connecting through their power.

She felt Hannah reaching across space.

The Fool felt her friend and could see her coming from her cave.

She knew Hannah could see her too as the Saint of Alric was teleporting to her sanctum. She knew her friend would not make it. Kelda looked up, feeling their connection, seeing Hannah.

Their eyes locked across the gulf between space.

The Fools face twisted. Elation died, replaced by anguish.

There was nothing she could do.

Rage, horror and despair filled the dying Fool of Thamelandand beyond that?

The deepest, clearest desire for vengeance.

Vengeance on the Mark, Uldar and his designs.

And like Kelda, Alex was something of a vengeance enthusiast.

For a moment he thought of sayingof uttering a final, cold pronouncement as he killed the Mark. Instead, he was silent, watching the thing that had killed so many young people just like him, scream.

He solidified the image of the original Mark in his mind, naming it: The Mark of the General.

Then the Fool of Thameland severed the last fibres.

Another shock coursed through his body.

Followed by a wave of extraordinary relief.

Then a roar of exaltant triumph.

And a single, forlorn, dying scream.

With an expression of pure joy on his face, Alex watched the jesters face shatter as the patch frayed, beginning to drift apart. It collapsed, gradually revealing more of his true soul, untilonly the jesters facecovered his own.

It was disintegrating, passing away like rain before the blazing sun, becoming an indistinct mass. He reached into himself, touching the Travellers power, focusing on the ruined patch then teleporting it away, never to touch his soul again.

A mass of energy appeared, twitching, covering the image above him.

A heartbeat later, it was gone.

Alex could finally see himself, joined with the original Mark.

A crown burned atop his soul. In one hand, it gripped a sword. In the other, a scroll. The young wizard turned his head toward his right shoulder.

The grinning jester's face was gone, no longer there to plague him.

Instead a glowing, golden Mark of a sword atop an unfurled scroll, with the blades pommel split like the peaks of a crown, had replaced it.

He couldn't believe it. He didnt dare to hope.

Swallowing, he raised his hand, and touching the mana within himself, Alex spoke an incantation.

It was short, but familiar.

As familiar as his own name.

The words of power meant to conjure forceball poured from his lips.

He waited.

Yet, no resistance came.

For the first time since he'd been branded by the god of Thameland, Alex uttered a spell without meeting interference, no failures clouded his mind, no resistance fought his will.

Nothing.

Just himself, and the oldest spell he knew.

His voice broke as he uttered the last syllable and raised his hand high, conjuring a forceball with a free and easy mind. It winked into being, appearing in a fraction of the time it would have taken with the Fools Mark hindering him.

It glowed crimson and bright, perhaps the most beautiful magical sight he'd ever seen.

Alex Roth wept with joy.

And the Fool of Thameland

No.

There was no more Fool of Thameland.

Alexander Roth of Alric, the General of Thameland, had returned.

He set his jaw.

You couldn't kill me when I could barely defend myself, he whispered, mind on the hidden church. Now, Im free, unshackled. Let's see what I can do to you. Its time for the General to learn some spells.

In its lair, the Ravener screamed.