Mark of the Fool C.840: The Final Trial

“It is time,” the Ravener’s resonated through the cavern, shaking every surface.

Dust rained from the ceiling.

Water churned below.

Ravener-spawn recoiled: hive-queens, behemoths, hives-as-one, blood-hydras, gibbering legions trembled, prostrating themselves on the banks of the lake. Only one being remained still: the corpse of Uldar, elevated on its stony throne, watching its creations with lifeless eyes.

“Our creator is dead,” the Ravener continued. “We have attacked his kingdom. We have helped it. We have tried both. For months, I have contemplated which would be his true will, but neither choice…are his will. He has no will. Our creator is dead.”

Those words—repeated again—struck the Ravener-spawn like thunderbolts.

They trembled at the meaning of those words: their purpose was also dead.

“But our purpose is not dead,” the Ravener continued.

Now the spawn looked up, hanging on its every word.

This was the most it had spoken this cycle.

“The corrupted General has returned, but I will not allow such a tainted being to exist: he was the enemy of our creator…and so he is our enemy. Forever.”

Ravener-spawn cried out in enmity and rage.

“Even if we were to aid our creator’s kingdom, I have felt the General’s mind…” The Ravener recalled that hateful moment when the one that was once the Fool had touched its consciousness. Hate had flowed from the mortal. Hate had flowed from the Ravener. “ ...he will not suffer us to live anymore than we would suffer him. Combat is inevitable—without question—the General must be annihilated. Since combat is inevitable…we shall use it. We shall use it as a trial.”

The Ravener-spawn crawled forward, reaching out to touch their master. Its words—promises of destruction—were the sweetest to their ears.

“The Heroes have returned to their ancient forms. I have reawakened the processes that create our strongest spawn. For the first time since the last culling, both sides of the cycle have returned to their full strength. We are matched: and with Uldar dead, there is no better way to decide which of his legacies will go forward. His people. Or his spawn.”

Ravener-spawn hissed.

“The full force of our might will be levelled at the creator’s kingdom,” the construct continued. “If we destroy it, then this island will serve as the eternal tomb to mark our creator’s passing. A monument to him, guarded by us.”

Its power flexed around it, the walls of the cavern rippled.

“If we fail, then his people have earned the right to live,” it continued. “And the right to our aid…”

It paused.

“ …but not forever.”

The more the Ravener thought through its plan, the more it made sense.

“This cycle, the Heroes have returned to their true form. This cycle, they are great. But they were not always as great in past cycles. Mortals are mortal. When these Heroes die and this generation of mortals in Uldar’s kingdom die, will their descendants still be worthy of our aid? It is unknown. So combat will be used again. And again. And the cycle will continue forever. Continue, but with changes.”

Of course, this could be the only way: an extension of the trial that Uldar had laid before his people, but with its purpose altered. No longer would the cycles be dedicated to channelling divine energy into the creator to save his life.

They would be used to decide if his people were worthy enough to keep their lives.

“In the future, all Fools will be allowed to continue, but all Generals—should any return again—will be wiped from this world. Uldar’s people send those who cannot fight away from these shores. We will not allow this to happen again. We will blockade the shores, and all of the creator’s people will undergo trials. If they are too weak and ignorant to survive, then they will not be allowed to hide in another corner of the world, destined to forget the god who granted them knowledge and life! If we destroy the Heroes this cycle, we will be quiet long enough for those who have fled to return. Then, we will slaughter them upon their arrival. If I am destroyed, then in the next cycle—after I aid the people—I will test them again. If we win, we will blockade them into these lands and kill them all. Such will be the way going forward.”

There could be no better way.

Of course, something had occurred to the Ravener: eventually, the cycle would end.

It was certain that none could withstand its full might—the terror of a culling—every hundred years. Even if they defeated it this cycle, and the next, and even the one after that…eventually, there would come a cycle where they would not be able to triumph.

There would come a cycle where they would be wiped clean from Uldar’s soil.

This suited the Ravener well.

Of course…there was another possibility.

It brought its attention to the corpse of Uldar on his stony throne.

…if its creator could die, then perhaps the Ravener couldbe permanently destroyed? Perhaps—through knowledge and might—Uldar’s people could find a way to shatter its ability to regenerate, ending it for all time.

If that were to happen…

If that were to happen…

The Ravener’s thoughts paused.

What did that mean?

A peculiar sensation stirred in its mind at the thought of oblivion.

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A sensation it had never experienced before. When it had first learned that its creator was dead, the thought of its own oblivion had not seemed so difficult to comprehend.

Now, though, now that it was beginning to decide its own purpose—breaking from the protocols that had guided it unwaveringly for thousands of years—the thought of oblivion brought about that unfamiliar stirring.

It disliked this sensation.

And so it pushed it away, turning its thoughts back to its waiting army.

“It is time,” it said again. “Time to act. Those I have commanded to help the people, will continue to do so until I instruct otherwise.”

The disappointment in the air was palpable.

But the Ravener was not done.

Far from it.

“Then we will cull. We will kill. We will wipe every last mortal from this land.”

As one, the Ravener-spawn shrieked, bellowed and roared their exultation. The cavern shook again.

At last, their purpose would be fulfilled. Fulfilled in a way not seen in millennia.

Hope sprang within the Ravener-spawn in a twisted mirror of the hope within the people of Thameland.

Both sides awaited the end of the cycles…but, wanting opposite outcomes.

“First, the General will be annihilated,” the Ravener announced. “Then the Heroes will be fought with all the power that our creator has granted us. Doom will fall upon them.”

The cavern shook again as great beasts slammed their limbs on the earth. Claws ground stone. Wings buzzed. Fangs gnashed. The bloodthirst in the air was palpable.

“To that purpose…” The Ravener poured power into its deepest processes. Within itself, the ancient pathways were readied once more. Both fear and mana poured through them freely, feeding the brood within.

In moments, that brood was ready.

And the rest?

They would be spawned much quicker next time.

“…behold, a true commander of your kind.”

The surface of the Ravener rippled.

Something began pouring out.

At first it seemed that tiny sparks were emerging from its surface, like flecks of flame sparking from a wildfire, but it quickly became clear that these were no mere sparks.

A swarm of creatures—each no bigger than a common flea—emerged from the Ravener, seeming like humanoid imps with dragonfly wings. Their bodies shone with an inner fire, and the air shimmered around them.

That air erupted in flame, transfiguring the swarm, creating an inferno-cloud as bright as a morning sun.

Lesser Ravener-spawn recoiled from the Skyfire Swarm as the air burned around it. The underground lake beneath the Ravener roiled, boiling from the monstrous heat.

Cracks spread along the ceiling.

A clutch of Ravener-spawn standing too near, failed to scramble away in time, bursting into flame as the air around—and within them—brought their fiery death. Abruptly, a second Skyfire Swarm joined the first.

Then another.

Altogether, three Skyfire swarms soon scorched the air and boiled the water around the Ravener. Each swarm—made up of thousands of tiny creatures—shared an evil intelligence.

Three swarms.

Three terrible minds.

Three bloodthirsty consciousnesses, driven only to destroy.

“Go,” it commanded. “Take the pathways. Seek the petrifiers and Hunters throughout the land. Use them to find the Usurpers. Use them to find the General. Destroy him. If you cannot find him? Wipe away everything in your path. Leave nothing standing. The Cleansing Fog and Earth Spitters will restore what you destroy.”

The Skyfire Swarms answered with deadly flame, splitting rock and melting stone as they shot away into a tunnel leading from the Ravener’s chamber. They moved forward with terrifying speed: fast-moving, like wildfire, consuming everything before them.

“To the death,” the Ravener said, calling upon its internal processes. “As it always should have been.”

Dungeon cores sprang from its surface: vast and more powerful than all past cores, far more capable of making its true monsters.

“Let combat decide the fate of Uldar’s creations,” it said. “Might and knowledge will decide all.”

Of course, the Ravener—gripped in the throes of creation—paid no mind to one critical thing.

That strange unidentifiable stirring within itself had grown.

It was glowing right through his shirt.

The symbol of the General burned on his skin.

“It’s happening,” Alex whispered.

The General of Thameland quickly removed his tunic.

On his right shoulder, the Mark of the General pulsated withgoldenlight. He could hear the low hum of a song: the same song that came from each Mark when they evolved.

But this time, the song was not coming from one Mark alone.

“Oi, my Mark’s doin’ the same thin’ as yours.” Cedric touched his chest: the Mark of the Chosen was throbbing in time with Alex’s, sharing the same melody. He glanced in the direction of Welling. “Y’don’t think…oi, look there!”

Cedric pointed to the south. Three figures were in the sky, hand in hand. Alex could feel teleportation magic as they disappeared and reappeared. A moment later, nine more figures appeared.

As they came closer, he recognised Drestra, Hart and Merzhin in the first group.

Theresa, Thundar, Khalik, Najyah, Isolde, Brutus, Bjorgrund, Birger, and Claygon, were in the second.

“Same thin’ mus’ b’ ’happenin’ t’ all of us,” Cedric murmured in awe. “This is it, ain’t it? Yer Mark’s changin’ too! S’gotta be!”

“That’s what I’m guessing.” Alex ran his finger over the Mark of the General. It felt warm to the touch. Comforting. He was ecstatic. “I must have fulfilled the conditions for the General. Here we gooooo!”

The Chosen had no time to answer, the three Heroes—and the other companions—materialised on the field.

“Alex! Cedric!” Merzhin cried, holding hands with the Hero on either side of him. The light from their Marks pulsed in time. “Uldar’s voice spoke to us!”

“Is everything okay?” Theresa asked, rushing to Alex.

“Father…are you well?” Claygon asked. “Your Mark…”

“Gather with the General.It is time,” Hart’s voice rumbled. “That’s what our Marks said.”

“Aye, we heard th’same.” Cedric touched the white-glowing scales. “An’ lookee here!”

“Your Mark changed!” Isolde went to Cedric, placing her hand on his chest. “How marvelous! Do you feel any different?”

“Maybe, but let’s talk abou’ all o’ that later.” Cedric took Isolde’s hand off his chest, kissing it. She blushed. “Las’ thing we need’s t’waste time jawin’ ‘bout me, maybe keepin’ Alex’s Mark from changin’.”

“True.” The General of Thameland looked to the sky, half-expecting the Ravener to pick that very moment to attack.

“How come your Mark hasn't changed yet?” Hart asked.

“Don’t know, but I’m guessing that since I had to touch each of your Marks for them to transform, maybe you four need to touch mine for it to change.”

“You should all get started then,” Khalik said. “I am eager to see what this transformation brings.”

The forest had grown quiet as evening light faded.

Beneath the trees, a deepening gloom fell while Ivan—captain of the Axe and Pick company of the Generasian Delvers’ Guild—weighed the contents of a bag positioned on a set of jewellers’ scales.

“Well?” his lieutenant asked. The large woman’s armour clinked as she leaned over her leader’s shoulder. Behind her, the other twenty delvers held their breaths.

Ivan suddenly grinned. “Over a pound!” He took the bag of dungeon core essence off the scale. “Good haul! With the others we got, we’ll be living like kings for years!”

A great cheer rose from the company.

“Get a fire going,” Ivan said, smiling down at the contents of the sack. Visions of wine and riches danced in his head. “I want a hot supper tonight; there’s a lot to celebrate. And broach a keg of ale while you’re at it!”

Behind him, the darkness gave way to an orange glow.

“Good, you got that fire going right quick!” Ivan laughed, still staring at the bag. “Now for some meat—”

“Captain!” Charlize cried in panic. “Look!”

Ivan whirled.

His breath caught.

The bag slipped from his fingers.

Frantic birds were shrieking, shooting past overhead. Terrified animals bounded through the trees—deer, wolves, rabbits, boar—all fleeing in the same direction.

Behind them, a blinding light consumed the forest; everything it touched burst into flame, and the roar of fire was growing in Ivan’s ears. Delvers began to run, dropping whatever was in their hands. Wizards tried to quickly chant spells.

But Ivan knew it was too late.

The fire was devouring hundreds of feet of woodland in heartbeats.

“Gods protect us all,” the delver murmured.

Skyfire Swarms swept over him, consuming him and everything near in an instant.

The swarms raced through the trees, eager to begin the culling.

To begin the final battle for Thameland’s future.

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