Mark of the Fool

Chapter 893: Cornered

Alexander Roth, General of Thameland, floated within the final node inside the Ravener, stunned at what he was seeing. This place not only produced massive amounts of mana, serving as a sort of control centre for the Ravener’s energies, but it looked exactly like Uldar’s throne room. From here, mana was sent through all of its internal mechanisms. Divinity and mortal fear was channelled throughout its form, powering its weapons and monsters.

This precise copy of Uldar’s throne room was the core from where the Ravener’s energies flowed, powering every part of his creation. It was a critical space, so it was fitting that Uldar had designed it to mimic his sanctum: his personal place of power and control.

There were minor differences between the two, though. Where the throne room in the sanctum of the god of Thameland had been crafted of snow white stone, and had featured a throne of the same colour rising from the centre of the room, this room was draped with a canopy of crystalline cords, all suspended, hanging, interlocking from the ceiling and walls.

Crystals grew from the floor on the sides of the room, resembling pillars alive with beams of mana shooting between their crystalline surfaces.

In the centre of the room was the replica of Uldar’s throne, surrounded by a forest of crystalline growths, extending to the ceiling, forming dizzying patterns with their many connections between them.

They thrummed with an array of energies.

But, at the moment, Alex’s eyes were fixed on the throne.

It was uncanny seeing the faithful replica sitting there, knowing that they had destroyed what they’d thought was the only one in existence. He’d watched the palace and its contents blow up, taking much of Och Fir Nog’s countryside with it. Not even the dust of Uldar’s throne could have survived that blast.

And yet here it was, so similar, that it felt eerie.

“Wait, what?” Alex glowered at the throne. “After all the pain I’ve caused?”

“The Generals of Thameland did not know their place. They did not see the full image of Thameland or the cycle. Were it not for your predecessors’ futile inquisitiveness and rebelliousness, the cycles could have gone on without cullings, or any need to weaken the Heroes.”

“What the hells does that have to do with me?” Alex snapped, his eyes scanning the chamber. At the same time, he was calling on the Mark of the General, searching the room, learning the mana pathways running through the tangle of crystal weaving around the throne and the canopy of crystalline cords suspended from the ceiling.

Images of the Ravener’s schematics and the other nodes he’d poisoned flowed through his mind.

“You can’t help but repeat the same sins: you only know how to destroy for your own ends. You destroyed the hidden church that was dedicated to Uldar. You murdered Aenflynn, the creator’s friend and ally, and now you are here, defiling this place, wreaking more havoc.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, you don’t!” the General of Thameland growled. “You’re reversing the roles of victim and offender. It was Uldar who pushed thebloody cycle on the realm. It was Uldar who created you to torture his own people. It was Uldar who decided to suck the lives and faith of his own followers just so he could live a few heartbeats longer. Go straight to all the hells with that nonsense, and tell it to a demon when you get there. They’ll probably care a lot more than I do.”

“Such insolence. Such insolence.”

“Insolence? You’re the bloody insolent one: both you and your fallen god. Look at this place? A perfect replica of an empty throne room…except this isn’t really a throne room, is it? It never was.”

Alex’s eyes hardened further. “Uldar retreated to his sanctum and never ruled from there; he just schemed and plotted and hurt people. He was no king, and that was no throne! He never ruled from it. No, that’s not what this chair is. It’s nothing more than a copy of his deathbed and this room’s nothing more than a copy of his hospice and morgue. This place isn’t special. It’s you who’s insolent: we’re the ones who give you power. You and your weak creator would have been nothing without us. You’re no better than mad dogs biting the hands that feed you. One of you is dead, and it’s time for the other one to join him. Go quietly. You’re weakening, you can’t stop us anymore.”

“Do you ignore the situation you are in?” the Ravener demanded. “You are merely delaying the inevitable. You had to go through a great deal to weaken me. Do you think I don’t feel you poisoning my mana and my essence? Destroying my nodes? And, it will all be for nothing.”

While the Ravener was taunting him, Alex had gotten a good read on the flow of mana in the chamber.

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Once he started altering it, the construct might figure out the full breadth of what they were actually trying to do to it, so he'd have to act fast.

“In a hundred years’ time, I will return when most of you are skeletons. I will have my spawn trample on your bones and grind your descendants into the dirt.”

The General sighed.

“Sure you will,” was all he whispered, teleporting away to the ceiling canopy.

Quickly calling one of the last poisoning devices to him, he stabbed it into a hanging cord with one fluid motion. The cord sparked, and began to blanche as the venom spread through it.

Alex kept moving, teleporting to another cord, touching it, forcing his mana into it.

With a growl, the Ravener retaliated, flooding the air with poison, spawning monsters.

Bolts of power—lean and deadly like needles—fired from the crystals lining the sides of the room, all seeking to skewer the General.

Alex remained calm.

The monsters were materialising slowly.

The beams firing sluggishly.

The poison was blown away by the air elementals he was summoning.

By now, the device that Alex had injected it with was taking its toll; weakening it further.

“Look at the measures you must take to weaken me before finally slaying me this cycle,” the construct’s tone was mocking. “Your people will benefit for a time as per the parameters of my challenge—savour that small victory while it lasts and while you can—”

Alex continued teleporting from cord to cord, altering their inner workings with his mana.

“—in the future, this trial will…this trial will…”

The Ravener paused for a long moment.

“...when I return, I will…”

It paused again.

Alex could feel its attention wavering.

“…what exactly are you doing?”

Alex ignored the question, continuing the sabotage.

“What are you doing?” it demanded.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

The Ravener felt itself weakening; many of its nodes and pathways were filled with a poison that the Usurper was using to rob it of its power and faculties. It was harder to direct its thoughts, harder to control its power, harder to defend itself. The poison was working too well.

But why was this disloyal Hero poisoning it?

Why was he draining its mana?

In the past, the Heroes of Thameland had destroyed it by wielding terrible magics, martial might, and deadly divinity. Why were they bothering with such a complex process this time? What purpose did it serve? Were they planning to capture it, to imprison it? The Saint had said before that it should pay for all it had done. Was this their plan?

Or was there something else…

The Ravener began analysing the specific inner functions the Fool had targeted; all of his efforts had focused on ruining its ability to generate and channel mana…

…no.

There was more to his actions!

The systems he was targeting, they governed its ability to regenerate and…and…

Suspicion clicked in the Ravener’s mind.

A terrible possibility that it had not considered.

A possibility that was very quickly confirmed.

Outside of its inner depths, within its lair, it watched the Saint of Thameland raise his hands.

“Alex!” the Saint called. “I’m ready! Call her!”

“Right!” the General, outside the Ravener, answered, his voice filling the construct’s lair.

The archwizard concentrated for a moment.

Another being appeared inside the cavern.

The Ravener flinched at this new presence; a woman holding a lantern—

No!

No, she was unlike any mortal woman it had ever seen. She was not mortal!

She exuded divinity.

A goddess; yet she looked vaguely familiar.

She had once been another troublesome Saint, but from centuries past. She was supposed to be long dead! So, how was she here?

Before the Ravener’s sluggish thoughts could go further, the goddess locked eyes with the Saint of Thameland.

They nodded, extending their hands toward the Ravener.

And spoke as one.

‘From this moment, Thameland shall forevermore sever its connection with the Ravener. This is our interdiction in the name of Uldar and the Traveller!’ their voices rose, shaking the cavern to its foundations.

It felt more like the entire realm was shaking under the weight of their words.

Something severed within the construct.

All the fear trickling into it from the material world vanished.

Its connection to the land died as though it had never been.

‘What is this? Without the connection to Thameland, I will not—’ it began thinking. ‘—this is confirmation. They want to stop me from reconstituting! This is not only a battle to end me, it is a battle to end the cycle and spit on the creator’s will!’

That stirring within the Ravener peaked, consuming the construct.

The stirring had been brewing inside it since its mightiest spawn had been destroyed.

And—at last—Uldar’s construct fully comprehended what that unfamiliar feeling had been.

For the first time in its millennia of existence…it was feeling fear.

Pure, utter, existential terror.

What would happen to it? It had no soul to pass into the after-world. No chance to join its creator in death. Even worse than its own permanent destruction, was its ultimate failure. The unmaking of its very purpose.

If it was annihilated now, it would have failed to save its creator, failed to punish those that had turned their backs on their god, and failed to even continue the cycle its creator had designed and intended for Thameland.

‘No! This cannot be allowed to happen!’ the Ravener screamed inside.

But what could it do?

Its weapons were failing.

Its defences were falling apart.

Its own faculties were being turned against it.

The Ravener had received a great surge of divinity from Aenflynn before the fae’s death, but its internal pathways were so corrupted that it could not even use that power properly.

All that raw energy waiting there would be wasted, useless!

If anything, it would be better if it were dead. At least if it were killed before the Fool completed his sly tasks, there would be a chance for it to reconstitute.

If only it were…

…then an idea struck.

A wonderful, terrible idea.

It knew exactly what it would do with the divine power that Uldar’s friend had so graciously provided.

‘I will detonate my form and reform in a hundred years, destroying everything in here before they can ruin my ability to reconstitute,’ it thought. ‘And I will cause every dungeon core in Thameland to explode, wiping out mortal life across the wretched realm. They have cornered me, but in doing this, I will make their actions futile. Their petty kingdom will be as silent as Uldar’s body. Yes. This will be how it ends. In a hundred years, I will gloat over their bones.’

With that, the Ravener called on its divine energies.

It called on its remaining mana.

It called on the last dregs of fear it had absorbed.

And it would use it for its ultimate reckoning.

A final act in this cycle.

One that mortals would speak of in frightened whispers for a thousand years to come.

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