Mark of the Fool

The demon moved like water.

It danced between unconscious drunks and the uneven floor as though moving on flat earth.

Guntile snatched a stone from her pouch, flicking it at the fiend.

The pebble flew true, but the creature ducked low without breaking stride, all in one fluid motion. The stone ruptured against a nearby beam, outlining their attacker’s form, revealing the gleam of a blade at its waist.

Alex’s thoughts raced.

He was almost up and out of his seat, ready to defend himself, but a mystifying thought struck him.

If this was an attack, why did the demon have its sword sheathed?

Before Ezerak could draw his weapon, their attacker was mid-leap, hands outstretched like a springing leopard’s claws, ready to pounce…

…beneath the table.

In a blur, it shot between their seats, and couched under the tabletop.

Those crimson eyes met Alex’s and dark lips below them hissed softly; a finger pressed against them.

They whispered imploringly, words the young, Thameish wizard did not understand.

He spoke in the tongue of demons he’d used before. “Wait, what now?”

A flash of comprehension passed through crimson eyes. “You speak a demon tongue?” He whispered, surprise clear in his low voice. “No matter if you be wizard or scholar, hide me, my friend. Drink and act like I am not here!”

“What?” Alex looked at the other two at the table, they mirrored his puzzled expression.

Clarity came quickly.

From outside, voices were shouting in a language Alex had no knowledge of, and he looked back down at the stranger.

He paused, undecided.

‘The hells with it,’ he thought, plopping down on the bench and slapping the seat beside him, his eyes on Guntile and Ezerak.

“Both of you, down!”

The two mercenaries looked at each other.

“He’s paying you…and probably me.” Guntile sat beside Alex.

“Aye, how far kings do fall.” Ezerak shook his head, sitting across from them, arms resting on the table.

Folk in the barroom turned away, focusing on their drinks, conversations, and the swaying dancers.

The bartender’s eyes had just dropped to a clay cup he was polishing when the door burst open.

A squad of men and women—well-armed and sheathed in bronze armour—rushed into the tavern, khopeshes drawn and shields high, snarls marking their lips. They stopped abruptly, scanning the smoky room, eyes widening at the armoury of deadly weapons before them.

Anger instantly drained away, giving way to restraint.

The lead warrior lowered his shield and weapon, eyeing the patrons in a mixture of surprise and confusion.

Suddenly, Alex felt magic pulse through the air.

The newcomers flinched back, body language hesitant, apprehension marking their faces. With a quick glance at his fellows, the leader nodded to the bartender, speaking to him in a harsh sounding language.

His face neutral, the bartender replied in the same tongue—the words coming easy to his lips—as the warriors’ frowns deepened.

Three broke off from the group, eyes searching tables for any sign of their quarry.

Those eyes fell on the trio at the table nearest the door.

They strode forward with purpose, one spoke, uttering something in the unfamiliar language.

The young wizard simply sat tall, back straight in his seat, calling upon the Mark.

It brought him images of every minute shift in their body language since they’d come through the door

He altered his own posture, setting his jaw, eyes steely like someone used to command.

Which, in some ways, he was.

“What’s this?” Alex continued speaking in the tongue of demons he’d been using since arriving at the Whetstone Tavern. “You dare disturb me and my mates when we’re enjoying a drink? Get gone, you, or I swear I’ll turn you into newts and boil you all in a potion!”

From the sand and heat that had blown in through the open door, and the soldiers’ olive complexions, he’d taken them for people from a desert land somewhere, and he had no idea if they knew what a newt was or not.

But, it didn’t matter: that wasn’t the point since he’d assumed they wouldn’t understand his words anyway—or any—tongue of demons for that matter, so he’d made the threat with a purpose: the sounds of those demon words were gruesome—each syllable piercing the ear—frightening to those with no knowledge of them.

And right now, he needed ‘frightening’.

The soldiers took one look at his expression and body language, and heard the horrible sounds coming from his throat, and cringed back like scalded dogs. Three pairs of wide eyes combed over the young wizard and his hard-looking companions, fingers making holy signs before their chests.

Abruptly, the squad leader barked a command, his head inclined toward the door, and the trio shrank away.

Without another word, the warriors turned, hurrying into the desert heat, their voices fading as the door banged behind them.

“What was that about?” Ezerak called to the bartender.

“Guards.” The man’s eyes glinted beneath the red brim of his hat. “Searching for a killer and rogue, apparently.” He smiled broadly. “And we know how we feel about killers and rogues.”

A hearty cheer, accompanied by raised mugs and the pounding of fists on tables, swept through the tavern. Guntile joined in, pounding her fist on the tabletop, making Alex wince: the very one making her cheer was still under their table, no doubt not appreciating the sound of a fist pounding inches above his head.

Alex leaned down, nodding to the demon or whatever he was.

“You can come out now,” he said.

“As I thought from the cheers and great pummeling right above my skull.” The man slithered from beneath the table. His breath came and went in great gasps.

“Sit down, join us. You look out of breath.” Alex patted the bench.

“The reason for that is very simple, my friend.” He collapsed onto the seat, drawing back his hood.

Crimson eyes swam with exhaustion and his skin—a dark umber—was drenched in sweat. He dried tightly curled black hair, and slightly pointed ears with the hem of his cloak.

‘Half-elf maybe?’ Alex wondered. ‘But crimson eyes…dark elf? Demon?’

The man turned, a grand smile breaking across his features. “To you, my friend, and to both of you—” He looked at Guntile and Ezerak. “—I owe my life. Were I not as dry of coin as the great deserts are of rain, I would see that you drink until you sleep as well as those over there.” The man nodded to the passed out drunks on the floor.

“Well, it’s the thought that counts, I suppose.” Alex frowned, more than a little bewildered. “So why were they chasing you…oh wait, where are my bloody manners?” He tapped his chest. “I’m Alex Roth, and you?”

“Kyembe, who folk call the Spirit Killer.” The rogue patted his own chest. “...you have heard of me, perhaps?”

A glint of metal drew Alex’s eye down to the hand Kyembe had brought to his chest, noting a shining ring on a lean finger. It blazed with a dreadful magic—as powerful as any in this place—reminding him of his time spent in the hells.

His body language was easy and open, but he watched the stranger with an intense gaze, carefully reading his body language.

“Right,” he said slowly. “No, sorry to disappoint, but I’m afraid I haven’t heard of you. Should I?”

The Spirit Killer glanced at Guntile and Ezerak, both shook their heads.

“Bah!” he shrugged. “Perhaps you would not have. As I look around this tavern I can see that in my flight, I have stumbled into a most peculiar place.”

“Oh, and why were you running?” Ezerak asked slowly.

“A misunderstanding, you see.” The stranger cleared his throat. “Those guards are under the impression that I did their great empire a disservice.”

“What was the disservice?” Alex asked.

“I gutted a high priest and hung him by his guts in his temple.”

Guntile snorted. “Why the hells did you do that?”

“His wife is a high priestess who hired me to kill a demon that had been stalking her city, hunting and killing for pleasure.”

Alex scowled. “Sounds demonic.”

“Right?” Kyembe spread his hands. “As it turns out, her husband—the high priest—was the one setting the demon on their people. He also sent it to kill me…and his wife’s followers. Learning that your husband is a demon, summoning, murderer of your own people does tend to make one less interested in the relationship, it seems. In any case, as I said, he set his summoned demon on me—which offended me somewhat—hence the gutting and the hanging. His followers found that less amusing than I did, so I was making my way across the city to the harbour when I came upon this place and thought to hide here.”

He patted Alex on the shoulder. “And that! Is when you decided to rescue me, because you are—as of this moment—the greatest among all men. I cannot let this debt stand, you must let me repay you in some way.”

“Mhmmm.” The young Thameish wizard mused, watching the man’s body language.

His mannerisms were fluid, like flowing water, and his ivory-hilted sword—though less powerful than the ring—was coated in its own magics. Alex thought back on his blurring movements when he first entered the tavern.

It was becoming clear that this…Spirit Killer might very well be a very, very dangerous man.

Thankfully, he was in the market for ‘very, very dangerous’ at the moment.

“You said you killed a demon.” Alex leaned forward. “Do you often do that?”

“Much of my trade and life is focused on it.” Kyembe’s eyes hardened. “Their kind is filth, and many hold folk in their claws. Why not destroy them? Let them be in fear for a change.”

“I can get behind that,” Alex said slyly. “Tell me, you speak this tongue of demons very well, have you ever been to the hells.”

“Once. It was not a pleasant ti—” The man paused, a sudden dawning of understanding entering his eyes. “Aaaaahhhh, you seek to lead a raid into a demon’s stronghold? Looking to hire swords. Yeeessss…now that I look closely, you have the look of—well, to be honest, you have the look of a wrestler—but you also have the look of a wizard. And few mortals but those who practise such arts have such a command over the tongues of demons. Well, if that is your purpose, you can count on my sword, my ring and my magics. Although…”

He glanced down at the shabby tunic covering his torso. “I would appreciate a…meal, if you could, as poorly as that reflects on me.”

Alex smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. “What kind of boss would I be if I didn’t make sure my mercenaries were well fed. All three of them.”

“Wait…so I’ve got the job too?” Guntile asked.

“Let’s just say your rock throwing…rocks. Your skill made an impression.” Alex grinned.

“Oh…” Ezerak murmured awkwardly.

“What?” Guntile frowned.

Kyembe let out a deep chuckle, which made Alex like him immediately, even if their ‘chance’ meeting aroused his suspicions.

A demon slayer that happened to wander right into his hands when he was looking to slay demons? He wouldn’t rule out coincidence—or some cryptic prophecy business, considering this place and what the bartender had said—but the timing seemed a little too perfect.

It made him wonder if there was more going on here than it seemed, if maybe Zonon-In had gotten wind of Baelin’s plans and wanted a spy among their ranks. The chancellor had warned him about some of the rogues in this place.

‘Anyway, better to keep a close eye on traitors,’ Alex thought, remembering Amir. ‘If you are a spy or an assassin, ‘Kyembe the Spirit Killer’, then let’s have you right within Baelin-scrutinising, and Claygon-blasting distance, shall we?’

“Well, are we not a merry band?” Kyembe said. “Is this all of us?”

The door burst open again, this time bringing in cold air and snow along with the towering, armour-clad figure who’d exited before.

With armour clinking, he made a line directly for their table.

An intimidating air radiated from him as he stopped before them, looming like an oak tree.

“I heard everything.” His words were clipped. Precise. “You seek to slay demons and rob them. You wish to pay. I wish to be paid. I am Celsus. Ezerak can vouch for me.”

“Wait, what do you mean you heard everything?” Alex was startled.

“His people’s ears are as sharp as diamonds, I wouldn’t be surprised if he heard half the whispers in here. Celsus, are you sure you’re interested?” the former king seemed surprised.“It’s not like you to get involved unless the job really moves you.”

“It did. I’ve had run-ins in the hells. Any plan against their masters? I want to be part of.” He growled, raising his visor.

An elf’s features were revealed, one with ghostly-white skin and not a trace of hair anywhere on his head, not even above his eyes, giving his large, strange eyes—gold, with red flecks—an intimidating cast.

“I’d hire him,” Ezerak said. “Few warriors are his match in this whole place, and that’s saying something.”

“Agreed,” Guntile joined in. “He isn’t…the most subtle, but if we have him as our backup, you can count our opponents as good as dead.”

“I like the sound of that,” Alex said, looking at Kyembe. “What do you think?”

The Spirit Killer leaned back, spreading his hands helplessly. “Do not look at me! After all, I just got here.”

Alex took a long look at the tall, pallid elf…his body language was odd. He seemed to be hiding no ill-intent, but then again, the way he moved was almost alien.

‘Definitely in Claygon range.’ The young wizard thought.

“Right, welcome aboard Celsus,” he said. “And to answer your question, Kyembe, this is almost the whole team. I hired another mercenary and we’ll have a friend of mine accompanying us. But yeah, that’s it.”

“So, including you…” Guntile counted on her fingers. “Seven. Small team for a raid on the hells.”

‘And possibly an expendable one,’ Alex thought, stymying his guilt. ‘But, in the end, better us than everyone close to me.’

“Yep, it’s seven. A magnificent seven,” he said. “No wait, there’s Claygon too, so more like an eight really. A hateful eight?”

“What are we hating?” Guntile asked.

“Hopefully not ourselves for taking this job…and speaking of the job, let's get to it in more detail.” He waved Celsus down to take a seat at the table.

“Now…tell me, how many of you have seen performers at a fair. How many of you can dance?”