Mark of the fool 3 a pro.., p.1
Mark of the Fool 3: A Progression Fantasy Epic, page 1
MARK OF THE FOOL 3
©2023 J.M. CLARKE
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Also by J.M. Clarke
Mark of the Fool
Book One
Book Two
Book Three
Contents
1. The Heroes’ Struggle
2. The Corrupt Fool in Paradise
3. The Final Hunt of First Year
4. Rumbling Earth
5. Earth Magic and New Beginnings
6. The Final Debrief and Youth
7. The Migration
8. Birthdays and Spell-Guides
9. Blood Magic and Incoming Visitors
10. The Hydra and the Beast
11. A Little Magical Botany Class of Horrors
12. Respect and Questions
13. Binding Circles
14. The Power of Names
15. The War-Spirit
16. Relations Across the Planes
17. Messenger Constructs and Limits
18. New Prey
19. Kitchen Nightmares
20. The Rain
21. Honey & Wine
22. Wasp and Strange Circumstance
23. Raging Wasp
24. The Night of Long Stingers
25. Reflections on Death
26. The Patterns and Scripts of Time
27. Like a Marriage
28. A Brewing Rivalry
29. Old Acquaintances and Reunions
30. Rumours
31. The First Briefing… and a Big Mouth
32. Digging a Hole
33. Beneath the Garden
34. Magic Mushrooms
35. The Birthday and the Rainbow Tower
36. The Talk
37. Prepping for the Grand Battle
38. Strange Offers and Strange Summonings
39. Travelling from the Deep
40. Debts
41. Revelations
42. Chasing Vermin
43. In a White Room with No Curtains
44. Alex Roth Goes to Jail (Maybe)
45. Resolution
46. Nonaggression and Reading Lies
47. Scouting Out the Grounds
48. Posturing
49. Lightweight
50. The Prince vs. the Mad Wrangler
51. The Prince and The Goblin
52. Super-Heavyweight
53. Four Arms vs. Ten
54. A Rain of Fists
55. Mirrored Golems
56. Vesuvius
57. Powerlifting
58. Fire in the Sky
59. Archers and Cowards
60. Reverent Archery
61. Deific Need
62. Great Hunts on Land and Sea
63. Loss and Resolve
64. Melee
65. The Clash
66. Heading to The Grand Battle
67. The Grand Battle Begins
68. Shock and Awe
69. Vanishing Point
70. Confrontation of Arrow and Word
71. Bait
72. The Battle of the Grasses
73. Divine Wind
74. Cutting In
75. Double Elimination
76. The Rising
77. Fanaticism and Divinity
78. Wrinkle of Recognition
79. The Prey that Fights
80. Reckoning
81. Mine
82. The Bonds that Heal
83. The Bonds that Harm
84. Getting to Know Someone
85. Demonic Reconnaissance
86. Justice and Blood
87. Life to Mana
88. Flowers for the Fallen
89. Memories, Recognition, and Inheritance
90. Grand Gifts and Unholy Friendships
91. Scars
92. An Ancient Search
93. Late Summer Days
94. Birthdays and Miserable Businessmen
95. Fingers and Departures
96. Family’s Parting on the Eve of Change
97. Finals and Final Preparations
98. The Usurper Returns
Thank you for reading Mark of the Fool 3!
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Chapter 1
The Heroes’ Struggle
“This isn’t working!” Drestra’s cry swept through the night.
The Sage of Uldar floated high above a circle of standing stones that rose from a misty hilltop. She chanted, her voice crackling like fire, and her golden, reptilian eyes, visible above a veil covering her mouth, glowed. Her form was ringed by a golden globe of force, while her spells poured from outstretched hands like an endless river.
Fireballs rained down from the hilltop like a meteor shower, exploding into roaring columns of flame that boiled the marsh below.
Between two of the megalithic stones, the Champion of Uldar chopped through monsters with his massive sword. The blade—crafted from a hive-queen’s pincer—sliced through mud coating his foes. Hart Redfletcher’s half-mad laughter boomed above the clash of battle and the gurgles of dying monsters and humans.
Surging toward him were clots of muck, soil, and clay barely held together in the form of dripping humanoids. The muck-warpers’ misshapen heads rippled as they climbed the hill. Partly formed mouths yawned open below dark holes where eyes should have been. The muck was thick enough to suck most weapons in, but Hart’s sword cleaved through it with ease, splitting apart the monsters beneath.
They fell in twitching heaps. In death, the mud flowed away, revealing ashen-skinned, humanoid creatures with bodies as thin as bird bones. Barely more than a child’s stick figures. And while they appeared feeble, the magically, animated mud coating them gave them an unnatural strength.
And there were a lot of them.
A scream rang out.
Two sides of the hilltop were defended by formations of experienced knights supported by the miracles from a group of priests of Uldar. They’d formed tight lines between the standing stones, using them as cover, trying to keep their foes at a distance. Often, a weapon thrust at the monsters would become wedged in the magically-viscous mud protecting the muck-warpers.
A knight stabbed—trying to pierce the muck-warper inside—but the blade sank in with a wet sucking noise, holding it fast. As the warrior fought to free his blade, the creature’s fist slammed into his helm like a mace, dropping him in a twitching heap. A priestess rushed to the knight from within the standing stones, desperately chanting a prayer to Uldar.
Behind her lay a host of injured knights. Priests worked to mend them, but for some it was too late, and they breathed their last breath.
“We cannot hold them forever!” Drestra chanted a new spell. Two balls of flame rose from her palms and shot toward a mass of monsters threatening the knights. The orbs spun together and exploded in a tornado of flame. It roared like a hungry beast rolling downhill, sucking monsters and air inside.
For an instant, the night turned as bright as daylight.
Hart’s laughter boomed even louder.
“That’s it, Drestra. Get the great dirty bastard’s flounderin’!” Cedric of Clan Duncan shouted.
The Chosen of Uldar could feel the heat from Drestra’s spell as fire blew muck-warpers to ash by the dozen. But past the clouds of steam in the boiling marsh, he spotted something grim.
In all directions—under the light of moon and fire—muck-warpers filled the marsh, lurching toward the hill. Hundreds of them, by his reckoning.
An endless tide.
A worthy challenge.
Cedric of Clan Duncan roared, his red hair blowing in the backdraft of Drestra’s flame. “Keep up the pressure, lads and lasses! We’ll get ’em dead as the dirt they shovel over themselves!”
He was defending the side of the hill opposite Hart and threw his might at the horde of monsters.
His Haste spell doubled his speed, and
Cedric spat out an incantation: magic infused his voice and his battle cry hammered the air. A blast of pure, booming energy crashed through the muck dwellers, blasting the creatures apart and giving him room to catch his breath, however briefly.
The Chosen of Uldar stepped back between two of the gigantic standing stones and glanced over his shoulder.
Hart was killing as many as Cedric with pure, Mark-enhanced speed, might, and skill. The Champion’s gigantic sword moved in his hands with the swiftness of a dagger, and muck-dwellers fell in droves. He showed no sign of slowing.
Drestra, though, had poured out enough magic to exhaust Cedric’s ten times over. “My magic is waning, and they’ll overrun us! Damn your eyes, Merzhin! Aren’t you done that prayer yet?”
Below her floated a slight figure.
Merzhin, the Saint of Uldar, sat cross-legged in midair. His hands were clasped in front of him. The voice that left his lips—quoting the scripture of Uldar—was so high and delicate, it seemed a breeze could break it.
Yet, the ethereal voice did not pause. It did not stutter. It was strangely serene, as though its owner were sitting in the quiet surroundings of a church, not a battlefield.
“Them muck dwellers’ can’t be fightin’ us forever!” Cedric called to Drestra as he turned back to their foes. “We bloody have ’em! Just a bit more! Merzhin’s near done!” He levelled his hand at the enemy. “Oh, Mighty Uldar, I ask you to bring forth your hand and make your enemies kneel!”
Divine power blasted through him—using his soul as a conduit—and was launched from his palm. It slammed into the horde, outlining many in white light. The Ravener’s monsters froze, then shuddered as they were slowly brought to their knees in supplication to the divine force which held them in its grip.
Some burned as the power rejected their very existence, but others swarmed past. Transforming his weapon into a long halberd, Cedric cut down the few who’d gotten by.
And then Merzhin completed his prayer.
“And lo, did Uldar will the lush realm of Thameland to His people upon His ascension. At last, His people no longer suffered from hunger. They wanted for naught and they did have plenty, even in the icy abyss of winter. And so did the seasons pass, and His people bore proper pride for their god.”
Merzhin’s eyes opened and a white light poured from them. “While His enemies knew only to fear Him. Season. After passing season. For Thameland is His domain. And He rejects all those who encroach therein.”
Something shifted.
Cedric’s soul shook. A massive presence filled the air.
Divine might flooded into Merzhin like a river.
“These grounds are hallowed by my blessing,” he pronounced, looking down onto the monstrous horde. Though his face was childlike, the wrath filling it was… ancient.
The Ravener’s monsters paused their advance as a terrible radiance built up around the mightiest of Uldar’s holy.
Then the air began to shimmer.
The Saint’s hands shifted until both matched the image of Uldar’s hand in his holy symbol. “These grounds are hallowed,” he repeated, and his voice seemed to echo from every tree and stone. “And they reject you.”
And the world changed.
Summer heat spiked around the hill. Leaves and grass grew before Cedric’s eyes. A heartbeat later, autumn’s wet chill lay in the air. Grass withered and trees shed shriveled leaves. Then the wind howled from the north bringing with it winter’s embrace. The marsh froze, growing barren and choked by frost.
Again, greenery sprang up and the air smelled of fresh rain. Then the heat. Then the withering. Then the ice.
“The seasons…” Drestra murmured. “They are changing before our eyes.”
The army of muck-warpers writhed as the mud cloaking them froze and thawed a host of times in just as many heartbeats. Some of the mud hardened and flaked away, turning to dried soil. The stick-like bodies were exposed.
As the seasons changed with ever increasing speed, Cedric saw the ravages of time fall upon the creatures. It bent their backs, withered their flesh, and stole their strength.
Soon, they lost all ability to stand.
At last, they fell.
The passing seasons slowed.
The temperateness of spring returned. Plants were green again, strong and healthy. The Ravener’s monsters all lay dead where they once stood. An endless tide of living creatures had been reduced to dried out corpses.
“Bloody hell,” Cedric murmured.
“Language,” Merzhin chastised as he descended.
His bare feet touched the earth, then he abruptly dropped onto his rump. The Saint panted from his efforts, drenched in sweat. “Pray to Uldar that this will be the last ambush we endure. I doubt I can call on his power again for at least a day.”
“Hah, you did your share and then some.” Hart whirled his blade to flick off muck-warper blood, then rested it on his shoulders. “Too bad they don’t have anything to plunder. You’d have earned the greatest share of us all.”
His plate armour—crafted of both fine steel and monster shell—clanked as he re-entered the circle of stones.
As the glow faded from his coal-black eyes, Merzhin pressed his slender fingers and palms together. “We thank you, Uldar, for delivering us from this plight. We ask that you find us pleasing and bless us. Let those that dwell here speed swiftly to your side. Let us continue to worship you, not just through words, but through works.”
Cedric looked up at Drestra. “Oi, you feel any more of the Ravener’s mana about or are we clear?
“I sense nothing.” A low growl issued from her throat as she landed beside Merzhin, looking down at him. “Nothing but death. Five moonlit nights. Five times we were ambushed here. Five times we nearly die.”
“I wouldn’t call this nearly dying. Most of us are alive.” Hart shrugged, marching over to the knights. “Well fought. We’ll honour the fallen.”
“There would be less fallen… If you had acted differently, Merzhin,” Drestra said quietly. “If you had taken much longer, I would’ve run out of mana. As it is, we will be in trouble if there’s another attack soon.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Hart said, flashing a grin. “I won’t run out of sword. I’ll protect us.”
“Hart, this is serious. Merzhin, if you took any longer—”
“I was channeling our god’s divine power,” Merzhin said in a high, clear, unbothered voice. While he was the same age—eighteen—as the other Heroes, he looked at least three or four years younger. His eyes held none of that youth, though. They were hollow, like a dead man’s. “Uldar must have the proper love and praise delivered before I might channel his will, Holy Sage.”
