Mark of the Fool

The air held little mana.

The same could not be said for some of the figures occupying tables in the tavern.

Though many were clad like any common mercenary or itinerant warrior would be, some also carried one or more objects that radiated high levels of power.

A steel axe strapped to a hulking orc’s back, encrusted in runes, blazed with fire magic.

A wiry woman playing a game of cards—with unfamiliar faces—had a golden halberd leaning against the bench by her side. Sparkling emeralds emanated a rainbow of deadly magics from it.

Other weapons, precious stones, and armour all burned with their own magics, each exuding a power as great as anyAlex had seen in Generasi. These were the true monsters of magic weaponry: stormbringers, swords of chance, blades of honour, and foe-hammers all.

And those were just the weapons.

The warriors who wielded them also had him taking notice.

In the past two years Alex had spent a lot of time with and around warriors, considering his life had been filled with mostly peaceful things, like baking, before he’d left Thameland. The Watchers of Roal were a constant on the campus, but Hart Redfletcher was the greatest warrior he’d met so far—being the culmination of hundreds of years of powerful warriors. Then there was Cedric, Theresa, Hanuman, Grimloch and others from Generasi, while Thundar was firmly on the path to greatness.

But within this tavern?

One look at the body language of nearly everyone present, revealed a naturalness of movement as they moved their bodies with utter ease and deadly precision. There were some here who seemed like they could give even Hart a challenge.

Folk without even a single bit of magic had the presence of those whose blade could make demons cry.

But there were also those whose body language was far from subtle: it was loud, jerky and seemed to scream ‘look at me’. They swaggered around as though trying to own and impress a room full of folk that could end a life with a single twitch.

Their bravado wasn’t working, though they looked from table to table, eyeing Alex and anyone who met their gaze with a note of challenge.

The young wizard met their stares evenly, neither flinching nor showing any sign of unease. He wasn’t aggressive, yet he remained guarded, displaying neither weakness, nor open challenge.

Alex wasn’t there to engage in a bar fight, afterall.

He was there to recruit fighters.

Sidling up to the bar, he nodded to the barkeep. “What do you have?”

“What do you want?” the older man grinned. “We have many things. Many, many things.”

“Cider?”

“Sweet or dry.”

“Sweet.”

“Then I have just the thing.” The bartender offered.

“Great.” Alex slid a tiny jewel—the smallest he had brought—across the counter, and the barkeep’s eyes seemed to spark at the sight.

He handed the Thameish wizard a tankard of bubbling cider in a clay pot.

“Thanks,” Alex said, leaning forward. “Listen, I’m looking for folk for a job…any idea of who in here’s good”

The barkeep shrugged. “Folk find their way here from many places. Some come on purpose, looking for pay. Others stumble in here, running from trouble. And others…well they are always here. You’ll find what you need from among the lot.”

Alex frowned. “Is that some kind of cryptic prophecy business?”

The barkeep’s eyes shone. “Maybe. Maybe not. You’ll find out soon enough, I think.”

“Yeah, okay, definitely cryptic prophecy business. Tell you what, if it all works out as you say, there’ll be a ruby in it for you.” Alex slipped away from the bar, making his way to an empty table near the door.

Stepping over a couple of drunks and the leftover ruins of a fight, he slid onto a bench, paying attention to the warriors nearby.

Alex was thumbing the small pouch of gems at his belt, slipping it under his cloak and palming a jewel in one fluid movement, when a deep grunt drew his attention to the nearest corner.

A curious sight met him.

Two enormous men—one blond and the other with hair like copper—stood before a table, facing each other. Both had one hand placed firmly on the table as they watched one another with expressions like stone.

As Alex watched, puzzled, the blond man raised a hand.

And drove his palm into the side of the other one’s face.

The slap was like a boulder dropping; Alex, expecting knives to be drawn or the white-haired man to collapse like a poll-axed ox, swore.

But nothing happened.

The man stood tall, his neck not even budging from a blow that could have felled Thundar.

“Not bad,” he grunted, tattoos rippling across bronzed skin.

He raised his arm back.

Then swept it forward.

If the first slap was a boulder falling, then the second was a thunderclap rupturing the air. The blond bear of a man’s head snapped to the side, his face shuddering, and his neck making an unhealthy cracking sound. He collapsed to the floor in a heap, while the white-haired man sneered.

“Need more steel in your neck, friend.” He reached down for a pouch, picking it up and counting the jewels inside.

Alex watched him carefully, noting the magic drifting from the blade at his waist, the power in his thick muscles, and the sharp, calculating look in his eyes. He took in the man’s powerful arms, completely covered in dozens of intricate tattoos, each bleeding magic.

His eyes paused on a phrase inked across the hulking man’s skin: Let them know you’re not afraid of Hell.

He’d found someone of interest. “You have steel in your neck and steel in your arm,” Alex switched to one of the tongues of demons. “You using that arm for anything besides slapping?”

The man startled, eyes filled with caution, and falling on the Thameish wizard. Stark white hair fell to his shoulders.

Alex kept his body language open and friendly, but confident.

“Depends on who’s asking and why?” the big man also spoke in a tongue of demons, a hand on his sword-hilt.

“Someone who might be interested in seeing your purse get a little heavier,” Alex gestured to an empty seat across the table. “Dangerous work involving the hells.” The young man nodded to the warriors’ tattoos. “Not that you’d be afraid of them.”

“...interesting.” The man stepped forward, dropping silently into the offered seat. “You know your stuff.”

“I have to, in my line of work.” Alex took a sip of cider, looking down in surprise. “Damn, that’s good. So, do you know anything about the Outer Labyrinths?”

“I’ve heard of them.”

“Good, then this will be quick to explain.”

It was not quick to explain.

On purpose.

Alex launched into an explanation of the job, in low tones and using the tongue of demons. His explanation was long—purposefully so—and winding, with his words rising in volume at certain points.

His approach gave him time to watch.

And assess.

If this warrior lost focus partway through Alex’s speech, it’d be clear that he wouldn’t have the focus and will to stave off the mania field. If he didn’t pay attention to the details, it would reveal a lack ofinterest.

If he got bored and drifted off, it would reveal that he lacked seriousness.

Those actions would disqualify him.

But, the man kept his focus on Alex for the entire explanation, eyes unmoving, hardly blinking. His attention was rapt.

As Alex continued talking, at points where he raised his voice, he noted others in the room. Some watched him with interest, but he marked those that looked on with comprehension: those who could understand the syllablesof a tongue of demons.

“And that’s the job,” he finished.

“Break into a party of demons, pretend we’re entertainers and find something hidden?” the man asked, his voice low. “Sounds dangerous.”

“And it involves good pay.” Alex slipped the jewel he’d palmed into his fingers, rolling it between them to let it flash in the firelight. He drew it back into his hand with a fluid movement. He nodded to Baelin and his mysterious friend. “Those two have more to show you. A lot more. If I’m lying, you can tell me to go to hell. Well, maybe not that, since I’m planning to go there anyway.”

Alex told the warrior the sum he would be paying, and noticed the large man’s eyes light up. “I’ll give you one now as a retainer, and the rest you’ll get after the job’s done. If you can bear danger, that is, and if you can handle yourself.”

“I am Ezerak Kai, former king of Feuran, Army-skinned, Blackguard of the Ebon Fist. And I’m not afraid of hell…but I amafraid of poverty.”

“Good. Good,” Alex searched the man’s mannerisms for any sign of lies. He found none. “I know your strength. Can you prove your skill?”

Ezerak smirked, extending an arm.

His skin rippled.

Monsters emerged; each tattoo rose from his flesh, shifting and twisting until the inked images became small, dragon-like beasts crouching on the table.

“These are a fraction of the size of some of the other creatures I command.” Ezerak said, his voice filled with confidence. “I have bound many to my command and flesh. They serve me and they will serve you. As for my sword-arm? You saw how I slap. I strike even harder. And swifter.”

Alex looked down at the creatures sitting on the table.

‘They’d be useful for scouting, for performance and for combat,” he thought.

“Very good,” he extended his hand. “We’ve got business, then. Former King Ezerak. I am Alex Roth.”

“And you’re now my employer,” the larger man shook his hand.

“And hopefully mine,” a woman’s voice said from nearby, her words in the tongue of demons.

Alex startled, as did Ezerak; the young wizard hadn’t heard a single sound as she approached. The mercenary was short, but broad shouldered. Her skin had a greenish cast to it, and the short tusks protruding from her bottom lip revealed at least a bit of orcish blood.

At her waist hung a pouch dyed with several colours: it blazed with magic.

“I heard some of what you were saying. You need warriors to go down to the hells, and I need gems.” She nodded to the young Thamsieh wizard leaning forward over the table. “I’m not going to boast or brag. I fight using throwing stones.” She tapped the pouch at her waist. “They strike flesh and they explode, then—”

There was a scrape.

Alex, Ezerak and the newcomer looked up, as a towering man in black armour rose from a table. His bulk had been hidden behind the smoking fire pit. He strode toward them—armour clinking with every step—and the massive mace strapped to his back clanking against their plates.

He didn’t break stride, stepping over sleeping drunks, an intense gaze behind his visor.

He was nearly at their table…

…when he turned, headed to the door, and opened it without a word. Brisk wind and blowing snow whirled into the tavern before the door shut behind him.

The trio watched the door in baffled silence.

“You know, I really thought he was going to attack us for a minute,” Alex said.

“Probably going to take a leak,” Ezerak said.

“In the cold? Doesn’t this place have a latrine?”

“There’s an ogre passed out in it. The door’s blocked and the scent’s so bad, it makes your eyes water.” The woman jerked her thumb toward a dark doorway in the back.

“Well, when you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go, I guess,” Alex said.

“Right,” the orc—or half-orcish—mercenary shook her head, nodding to Ezerak. “Hey, former king, do me a favour, would you?”

“Depends, Guntile.” The white haired man said.

“This.” She took out five pieces of flint from another pouch. “Throw them in the air for me, would you?”

“Ah, this old trick.” Ezerak took the shards without hesitation, tossing them toward the ceiling.

What followed was one of the most amazing displays of dexterity Alex had ever seen. Guntile’s hands blurred into her pouch, casting smooth stones through the air so quickly, it was like watching a blizzard.

With seemingly impossible accuracy, they struck each piece of scattered flint dead-on, popping them in tiny flashes of spark and heat.

Before two heartbeats had passed, she was done and grinning at Alex, revealing broad teeth and tusks.

“I’ve fought demons. They pop much better against them,” she boasted. “If one came in now, I would—”

The door burst open.

Blazing sunlight filled the tavern, and what blew in this time was not cold and snow, but heat and swirling sand. As Alex tried to grasp what was happening, a cloaked figure scrambled inside.

A head darted this way and that, before spying their table, which was nearest the door.

The form blurred toward him and the two mercenaries.

Demonic, crimson eyes glinted from beneath a dusky hood.