Chapter 721: A Short Lesson in Divinity

St. Merzhin used his divinity with a vengeance as he stood atop Vesuvius’ back.

The battle had been long, tough, and important.

All around him, a scene that resembled one he’d imagined one would see in the hells, unfolded.

The Heroes, Thameish knights and a group of allies from Generasi were defending a pass leading to the mountain city of Llanesam far in the western part of Thameland.

They had made a stand there.

Behind them, a vast medical camp sprawled within this strategic city that provided aid to hundreds of wounded from across the region. A supply depot in Llanesam also fed thousands of soldiers who marched through these lands.

Llanesam couldn’t be allowed to be destroyed, though the Ravener-spawn were bent on doing just that.

In front of the Heroes, a sea of the creatures filled the pass; bone-chargers, chitterers and skinned ones, gathered with their commanders. Behemoths, scores of gibbering legions, and rampart-crushers lumbered into the pass, a hunger for death in their eyes. The Ravener’s minions pushed forward with a fury unseen before, throwing themselves at the Thameish shield wall with no care for their own lives.

They were bent on slaughter, driven only to complete the Ravener’s cause.

Though now, stiff resistance met them.

Stiff, and fatal resistance.

With the Heroes and Generasians joining the fight, the tide was turning against them.

Themeland’s Heroes, Generasi’s Watchers of Roal and Tyris Goldtooth with her familiar, Vesuvius, were tearing through them. Hart had taken a position in the centre of the shield wall, his enormous blade chopping bloody swaths through the monsters.

His speed had grown since Uldar’s Rise, and with that speed, he quickly cut down droves of monsters before they could advance further. At his side stood Cedric, wielding spells and his spear with equal ease.

Drestra’s true form soared above, strafing monsters with torrents of flame. On the dragon’s back sat Thundar, raining storms of force-enhanced bolts down from a magically-infused crossbow, with precision.

Tyris weaved fire and stone through the enemy ranks perched on Vesuvius’ back while—behind her—Merzhin uttered a long, impassioned prayer to Uldar.

Or rather, to his spirit.

Even the deeply devout Saint wasn’t able to reconcile his faith with Uldar’s actions, nor the fact that the god he so believed in, was dead.

“And so the Holy lord of Thameland went unto his peoples’ enemies, and he cursed them! He said unto them, ‘Let the blood of those who wish to harm my people thin, for if the blood of the innocent means so little, then let theirs be as water’!” he chanted.

Divinity resonated within him, pouring free in a wave of invisible might.

The power bathed the Ravener-spawn, leaving them shuddering in its grip.

In numbers, bodies fell, contorting, blood thinning, changing, transforming to pure water. Shuddering became spasms, and spasms became death.

The Thameish army, Heroes and their allies had, so far, cleared much of the pass, giving them reason to cheer. The joyful sound echoed through the air, yet Merzhin could not share in their cheer.

His past inaction lay heavy on his soul as he remembered Carey. His friend should still be here with them, but his naive and blind trust had cost her her life.

It would take more than success in a single battle to redeem him for that sin—

Without warning, they appeared.

One moment, Merzhin stood watching the enemy army’s decimation.

The next, his vision was filled with a bloody form.

“What in Uldar’s name?” he cried, recoiling.

An instant later, Vesuvius groaned as a party of mangled bodies appeared from thin air, landing on his back.

“Vesuvius? What’s wrong—” Tyris turned, screaming at the scene behind her.

Merzhin gasped, thinking his eyes were deceiving him.

Atop Vesuvius’ shell, covered in caked blood and seemingly lifeless, were faces he had not seen since Carey’s funeral.

Faces in ruin.

He recognised Alex Roth, the Fool of Thameland, whose gaping stomach wound was so deep, it was a miracle he still lived. His chest was covered in blood, but he was still breathing. In his arms was the huntress, Theresa.

Her skin was seared, burns covered most of her body, raw, crimson, blackened; she was likely well past pain now, and horrifically wounded.

Brutus, her cerberus, lay beside them, battered and bleeding, his chest heaving.

With them were two giants that Merzhin didn’t know; one was wounded, though not nearly as badly as the others, the other was clutching the first to his chest.

“Hel…” Alex choked.

“W-what?” Merzhin gasped.

An iron hand seized his shoulder, squeezing tight, sending a shock of pain through the slight Hero. Claygon floated above the others.

“Heal…them…!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the pass. “Father…my family…they’re dying! Heal them!”

Merzhin swallowed, turning back to the ruin of folk he’d fought beside at Uldar’s Rise, and began doing what he was called to do.

He set his jaw and got to work.

A flurry of questions raced through his mind, but this was not the time for them.

It was the time for miracles.

Merzhin clasped his hands, then extended them toward the broken bodies prostrate before him. They were slipping in and out of consciousness.

“Oh mighty lord of Thameland” he prayed. “Let those lying here before you find solace and succour in your divine light. Let those who fight bravely be cured of affliction. Let wounds plague them not!”

Power rushed through the Saint of Thameland, the might of the Uldarite faith coursing through the gateway in his soul, his hands bleeding holy light.

“Free them from pain! Cure them! Release them from suffering!” his voice rose.

Holy power poured through his soul, springing from his hands in a wave of blinding light, surrounding Alex, Theresa, Brutus, and the two giants, infusing them with healing divinity.

Their bodies stiffened as their wounds healed.

Alex’s gaping wound knitted together; blood washed away, remnants of his shirt were ejected from the wound. Viscera healed, renewed to healthy skin, replacing shredded flesh.

The pallor of death retreated from Alex’s face, healthy colour returned.

Theresa shuddered from head to toe, charred flesh dissolved, hovering above her in a cloud. A fit of coughing gripped her, her body spasmed, dust rose from her nose and mouth, dissipating through the cold air.

The huntress inhaled, drawing a deep, gasping breath like a newborn taking its first breath.

‘Her lungs must have been burnt,’ Merzhin shook his head in horror.

As Theresa healed, so did Brutus. The cerberus mended, cuts closing, bone armour restoring itself, becoming as it was before meeting the First Apostle’s blade.

Arrows slid from the young giant’s body, his wounds were soon erased as though they’d never been. Relief filled the older giant’s voice.

“Son!” he cried, wrapping his arms around the young giant. “You’re healed! I thought I'd lost you! Oh thank the ancestors!”

As the light of Merzhin’s power faded, Alex’s, Theresa’s, Brutus’ and the healed giant’s breathing came easy. Not a single wound or scar marred their bodies, and their eyelids began to flutter, opening slowly.

Claygon nodded, watching them, then patted Merzin’s head with a single, iron finger. “Thank you…”

The golem turned then, raising his hands, he flew toward the battle and fired on a clot of Ravener-spawn. Beams launched into the horde, erupting like small chaos explosions. Behemoths disintegrated. Swaths of Ravener-spawn vanished.

Merzhin blinked, watching the battle shift again.

The Heroes and Generasian’s were watching him and what was happening on Vesuvius’s back.

“What in all hells just happened?” Thundar cried, his voice echoing through the pass as Claygon destroyed Ravener-spawn.

###

“I want them to pay,” Theresa growled, her knuckles white on the Twinblade. “I want revenge.”

Her swords gleamed in the brazier-light.

“I do too…I want to find them…and kill them…kill them all…” Claygon’s voice held a promise of death.

“I can’t blame you,” Drestra’s voice crackled, her reptilian eyes shining. “That little fae beast betrayed us.”

“I’m mad I wasn’t there.” Thundar’s fingers squeezed the haft of his mace.

Cedric and Hart’s jaws clenched, muscles tightening and releasing.

Tyris’ demeanour radiated rage.

Merzhin shook his head. “Such power…how did they find…” he muttered.

Birger was speaking in low heated tones with his son a short distance away from everyone else.

Deep rumbling sounds were coming from Brutus’ chest as he paced back and forth.

And Alex?

Alex was quiet.

The Fool of Thameland sat slightly apart from the others, staring at nothing. His brow was creased. He was breathing slowly. His mind was lost in thought.

As it had been for some time; he’d hardly spoken since the battle in the pass ended. He’d said little when the Heroes organised the army to make camp for the night. He’d helped them erect a large tent a short distance from the rest of the army, saying little, and—when they’d settled in—it was Theresa who’d told the story of the Guide and church’s ambush.

Even now, while others spoke of vengeance and hate, he said nothing.

“So that’s what they’ve been bloody up to.” Cedric’s fingers flexed. “They’ve been huntin’, looks like. What’s the Gui—”

“Don’t say his name,” Alex said quickly, his eyes unfocused. “There might be traps hidden in it; Gwyllain warned me about that.”

“It’s true, you did say he might be someone to be wary of,” Hart said. “But working with that hidden church? I didn’t think he’d go that far. Never saw that one coming. If I ever get his skull between my hands, I’ll crush it without a second thought.”

“It’s that First Apostle’s head I’d want to get my sword on,” Theresa said. “He enjoyed what he did to us. He tried to burn me alive. He tortured Brutus…we could have all died…!”

“If it weren’t for him, Carey would still be alive,” Merzhin muttered.

“He doesn’t get to kill anymore of my friends,” Thundar said.

“Um, excuse me,” Bjorgrund suddenly spoke.

The others—except for Alex—turned to him.

“Um, could you heal my father?” Bjorgrund asked.

“Don’t waste these people’s time,” Birger said with irritation. “I’ve learned to live with it. You can’t regrow a leg.”

“He healed such deep wounds,” Bjorgrund countered, looking at Merzhin. “And father, you said your aches and pains are gone. Please, I need to know, can you regrow my father’s leg?”

The Saint of Uldar looked around. “Um, hello…Bjorgrund and Birger, was it?”

“Aye, don’t waste your time, I know you can’t regrow a leg—” the old firbolg started.

“Actually, it should be possible. Perhaps.”

Silence fell.

“What?” Birger asked, a yearning lit up his eyes. “Truly?”

“Uldar and some of the great Saints of old have regenerated limbs with divinity,” Merzhin said. “Though it can take anywhere from days to months, depending on the age of the wound and the power of the priest. Apparently, from what Theresa said, the First Apostle can.”

“Can…can you do it?” the old giant asked.

“I…I do not think so. Not yet,” Merzhin said apologetically.

“Well, if that First Apostle regrew his arm, you should be able to do the same, right?” Thundar asked. “I mean you’re more powerful than he is; you stopped that interdiction.”

Merzhin suddenly laughed, a rare sound. His high voice oozed with a bitterness so deep, it grated on the ear. There was no mirth in that laughter, though.

“Please understand, I wish I was more powerful than him. I dearly wish it were so,” Merzhin said. “Do you know how divinity works?”

“Uh, can’t say I do, I gotta admit,” Thundar said. “Is it like mana, where you just gotta practise to get better?”

“No.” Merzhin shook his head. “Divinity is granted to us from our deity…or from the throne he or she sits upon. Faith flows from a believer to what they worship: their deity, for example, and then that faith transforms into divinity. When a priest calls on that power, divinity flows to them so they might perform a miracle, but it requires a gate to come through. And that gate is one’s soul.”

Merzhin held everyone’s attention.

“The soul acts as the gate that divinity flows through…but a deity’s strength is much greater than a single mortal soul; if one calls on too much of their holy god or goddess’ power, then, that would be like forcing a flood through a tiny gap in a weak dam. The dam would burst.”

“Oh…” Theresa murmured. “So that means the soul would break?”

“Exactly,” Merzhin explained. “There is some skill needed when calling upon a miracle, but the strength of one’s soul is the great limiter, rather than one’s skill. As one uses more of their deity’s divinity, the soul strengthens overtime like a muscle; that is why older, more experienced priests can perform greater miracles than, say, one who is first granted divinity.”

The small man made a sound of disgust. “The Mark of the Saint grants me a deep, deep connection with Uldar’s power. One that is unrivalled. It strengthens my soul as well, but there are still limits. The First Apostle has the Mark of the Chosen. His Mark has a lesser, though similar gift to the Saint’s. But he has also had hundreds of years to strengthen his soul and practise his skills. He can call on far more power than I can; but, my authority in Uldar’s hierarchy is still greater, so I can counter his interdictions…but, were I to try an interdiction myself…this weak, unworthy soul of mine would shatter.”

He looked at Bjorgrund. “To put it simply, I don’t know if I can heal your father.” He looked at Birger. “But I would like to try. When there is time, I will try my best.”

“Thank you,” the old firbolg said. “If we survive that long…if these powerful enemies are tracking us somehow, then we might be dead before long. We’d already be dead if that…First Apostle, you called him? If he wasn’t so focused on killing Alex, none of us would be here to tell what happened.”

Alex twitched.

“That’s why…we should teleport back now…find him…and kill him!” Claygon hissed.

“I want to go back too,” Theresa said.

“Aye,” Cedric jumped in. “I wouldn’t mind a rematch m’self. I owe the damn bastard.”

“No.”

Again, the atmosphere in the tent went quiet.

All eyes turned to Alex.

“No, we can’t do any of that,” he said grimly. “I’ve been thinking about a lot of things. About who they focused on, about what that means, about how they’re targeting us.”

“And what did you come up with?” Theresa asked.

Alex shook his head. “That’s the thing; next to nothing. I don’t know how they found us. I don’t know where they are in the Empire, and I have no idea what their next move will be…”

His mind turned to Selina.

“...or who they’ll target next to get to me…or any of us.”

“All the more reason to hunt them down,” Theresa said.

Alex shook his head. “We don’t know how to find them and tonight was sobering. We can’t leave our loved ones unprotected; they could attack us from anywhere.”

“Do we…stop searching for the sanctum…?” Claygon asked.

“No.” Alex shook his head. “Now, we need even more answers. Answers that Kelda’s notes might give us, and the longer I have the Mark of the Fool, the more time they’ll have to kill me while I’m still vulnerable.”

“So…what does that mean?” Theresa asked.

He looked at her grimly. “It means that the best move is for me to not put our loved ones at risk. The best move is for me to move quickly and quietly to find the sanctum.”

Alex swallowed.

“The best move is for me to search for it alone.”


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Author's Note

Hello thirty-seven cool fools, almighty chosen, wise sages, and mighty champions! Thank you for your support!

So a good part of this chapter is explaining more about how divinity works. Because it occurred to me I never have had an explanation for it. There's no divine characters in early Fool.

Alrighty, cya Tuesday!