"My heart is full."
Cassandra raised her own glass but did not drink. She leaned forward on the table and rested on her elbows. For a long moment she looked at him. Oligan felt his skin heat beneath her gaze. Thirty one when the sickness took her. The eyes that stared at him, ancient.
"Take off your mask. Why do your wear it before us? I have told you, I find your new form beautiful. Your suffering and strength are beautiful."
Oligan felt his heart leap. He knew she would ask this. He knew he could not refuse her. He feared that as soon as he exposed his true face she would see the lie. Instead of love she would know his revulsion and terror. His fingers reached up and unhooked the clasps behind his head. He lifted the shining weight from his skull and laid it on the table beside his plate. A sudden breeze of cool air washed across his skin. He took in a deep lungful of air. He stared at the knotted wood of the table. Not daring to look up.
"There he is. The man I fell in love with. "
Oligan blinked. He swallowed hard and then looked up at his wife and children. All three stared at him with vacant grins. Elena waved her little undead fingers at him.
"You asked about the future Dada."
Oligan nodded. He tried to control his shaking fingers. In his peripheral vision he could see the servant's fear. Glad they were tongueless. Very few got to see the true ruined face of Oligan Rathratta. None could be allowed to speak of it.
"I did. But I am afraid of the answers."
Aspen shook her blonde curls in glee.
"Our hearts are also full, father. Filled with Sorrow. We are made of poison but we live."
Elena nodded in excitement.
"And we have been woken up to deliver that Sorrow to the world."
Aspen looked up at the window at the moon and stars shining in.
"We are like special flowers, Dada. And we must pollinate the lands."
Aspen beckoned over one of the servants.
A slender man of knotted sinew and oiled dark skin. He rushed forward and began to pour a jug of water. Aspen held up a little hand to stop him.
"No. It's not water I want. "
The servant blinked at her with wide fearful eyes. His eyes flicked to Oligan. The king stared on in quiet horror. The servant bowed his head a little, waiting for instruction.
Aspen sat tall in her chair and beckoned him close.
"I want to tell you a secret."
The servant man frowned, confused. He looked to Cassandra for permission. She stared and gave him a little nod. The servant swallowed but did not want to disappoint a child at play. Not this child. He bent down to one knee and cocked his head. Aspen leaned in and cupped a hand to her mouth. She giggled like the little girl she no longer was.
Oligan looked on, breathing hard. He heard the vaguest whisper and watched the servant start to smile. Oligan blinked. He thought that some sickly mist seeped between his daughter's cupped fingers. The same dirty flecked mist that swirled in the Sorrow's reliquary. As if she breathed it into his ear.
After a few moments she drew back and the servant stood. He had the same fixed idiotic grin on his face. His eyes blank.
He turned to his king and despite his imbecile grin tears ran down his cheeks.
Oligan felt a shiver through his body.
"Aspen what did you tell this man?"
Aspen giggled.
"Tell a tongueless man a secret he cannot share, Dada. It's the best fun."
The servant opened his lips and a wisp of that dirty green fog blew out. Trying to speak. Trying to tell Oligan something. His usual grunts and distorted vowels. The struggles of the fleshy stump that rolled in his mouth. The servant pawed at his lips, willing them to form words. The tears streamed down his cheeks now.
Oligan had seen enough.
Every moment he witnessed reminded him of what he had nurtured. What he had released into the world. He gestured to the other servants, standing in the darkened corners of the hall.
"Enough of this. Take this man away and get him some wine for his nerves. My daughter scared him with her games."
The man stood staring at Oligan. The stump of tongue wavering in his open mouth. The eyes wide and terrified.
She broke his poor mind. With a single whisper. My little daughter. Oh what have I done?
Oligan started to stand up but the servant gave a strangled scream. Oligan half-stood wide eyed in terror.
His tongue.
The man's stump of a tongue grew. Before Oligan's eyes it lurched out of his mouth. Thick, grey and covered with mucous. It lolled there for a moment and then snaked around his cheek towards the ear. The servant fell to his knees, clawing at his rejuvenated appendage. Now like a thick snake wrapping its way around his head. Oligan stood up and stepped to help the man but fear stopped him short. The thick mindless tongue snaked around and around the servants head, wrapping him like bandages. Like a corpse being mummified.
It covered his chin, nose and cheeks. Oligan afforded a final look at terrified eyes before a blindfold of flesh slithered across them.
Within moments no face at all. Just a featureless head wrapped in grey fleshy bandage. The man's arms hung limp at his sides. He stood up. For a moment he sagged like a puppet. Then he stood tall and animated. He turned his eyeless face to Cassandra and cocked his head.
The man gone. The nature of the Sorrow.
Not one species like cattle or dogs. An insidious force. It crept into the flesh of other living things, corrupting and warping. Commandeering their bones and organs and reshaping them to suit its purpose.
The tongue man walked over towards Oligan. It picked up a jug and stood next to him, pouring wine.
Oligan sat back down.
He was going nowhere until this meal was complete.
Oligan realized what his family now were. Not people, not living at all.
Instead, seeds of a plague. Moving vessels of disease. Sitting at a dinner table looking at the progenitors of a death that would sweep the world.
And he, the king, had spent years removing the only powers that could stand a chance against it.
King Oligan Rathratta wept. He hoped his family would see his tears of joy.
2
The wind blew in from the Bleaks.
It threw Alfred's cloak about him.
The Sorrow is here after a thousand years asleep. And this time we are alone and defenseless, he thought.
He stood atop a watchtower looking across the desolate land stretching to the horizon. A lone figure in monk's robes standing stark against the angry sky.
The desert of granite lay below peppered with shards of black glass. A hail of crystal arrows sticking in the earth. Whirlwinds of dust raged. The powdered bones of the long dead. And the not so long dead, thought Alfred.
An old battleground. Desolation from a thousand years ago. When The Sorrow had first come into the world it had destroyed half of it. Only the combined strength of men, monsters and gods had driven it back into the dark. That's what Master Phillip had told him. On the day starving Wendigo had attacked their campsite and torn his brother priests to pieces. A day he had found himself alone on his pilgrimage to this remote, forgotten monastery.
Alfred thought it ironic that the desolation caused by the Sorrow when it had first tried to consume the world now kept them cloaked from it. Raw sorcery in the winds swept the Bleaks. Fissures in the broken land leaking spells into the air like geysers. A terrifying place. The only buffer between the few survivors and the returning plague. The high levels of background magic obscured the powers of the king's seers to locate them. For now.
But they all knew the attack would come soon enough.
Looking out across the desolation, Alfred marveled at the changes in his life since he left seminary school. He had been hiding there in seminary and he knew it. Hiding from the magic suspected within him. Hiding from waking visions and nightmares. A priest without faith. He never thought for a moment he would make it this far. Somehow, here in Ir
onghast he had discovered the first slivers of faith and courage in the face of monsters.
Ironghast Monastery stood as the last refuge of those with the Magus Heart in the known world. Every straggler King Oligan and his Sorrow masters had not eradicated.
Alfred spent many nights in the libraries, poring over forgotten books. Looking for clues that would help them in the war. One book in particular had demanded his attention.
The Libram of Ashes.
Possibly the only person in the world who could read it, Alfred had learned much. In the days awaiting the arrival of others blessed with Angall’s Whisper, Alfred had studied the book under the supervision of Invar Ironbound and the Abbot Malkolm Bluheart. Alfred had told no one of the page he had already torn from the ancient Prayerbook (that he kept hidden in his chambers, his latest unforgivable sin), but in a monument to irony had discovered something else in his studies.
This was not the only page that was missing.
In scribbled notes and cryptic phrases, they learned that the most important page had been removed centuries before. A spell wrought by Angall himself, specifically to eradicate a Sorrow Lord like the Green King. A spell that required Manticore’s blood and Angall’s Whisper combined to activate it. To bring together mortal enemies in alliance against a greater foe.
The notes had been vague, scribbled by other priests like Alfred centuries before. Those gifted with the blessing to read Angallic script. Alfred and the monks pieced together the story as they went. A traitor within Ironghast in another age caused a fearful monk to remove this blessing from the Libram and send it secretly elsewhere.
It had been hidden under the altar in Angall’s temple in the city of Crowburgh. If the Green King knew this too, he would set his forces against Crowburgh to destroy it. Perhaps he already has, thought Alfred.
Invar ironbound, the last Knight of the Blaze, had volunteered to ride to Crowburgh to retrieve the missing prayer before it was too late. Alfred feared for his mentor. He feared losing another important person from his life. But he knew the old paladin was the only person capable of the task.
If anyone can find it, it is Invar, thought Alfred.
Invar waited for him in the depths of the tower where Alfred stood. A meeting had been called. Alfred was expected to attend. Alfred was not standing in the cold wind to project an aura of heroism. He was doing what he had done for years. Hiding. Trying to gather his meager courage.
Terrified at the thought of standing before a motley group of strangers. They would see through him, all of them. A poor excuse for priest and worse for soldier. Alfred had faced awful dangers on his journey to Ironghast. But nothing had made his palms clammy and guts churn like public speaking.
He hadn't slept well. It always made his nerves jangle.
The dreams. The constant dreams the Sorrow still plagued him nightly. The world-spanning battlegrounds crawling with monsters. The flame haired girl who cut through them with primal fury. The defenses falling. Walls tumbling under a wave of aberrations. Always, the dreams ended in defeat.
Part of Alfred still thought they had the wrong man. A case of mistaken identity. Somewhere out in the world strode another Alfred. A tall man of knotted muscle and oak heart. He wrapped his robes around him and shivered. Then he made his way down the spiraling stone staircase into the monastery.
Alfred's snapped from his daydream and found himself standing outside the doors to the council chamber. Two wiry warrior monks with shaven heads and spiked clubs stood outside. Alfred coughed and approached.
"Brothers. Father Bluheart and Invar Ironbound have requested my attendance at council. May I pass?"
One of the thin-faced monks flicked his eyes to Alfred. His expression austere. A monk little older than Alfred and one he knew in passing.
"You're one of the last ones to arrive Alfred. People been pouring in from the far corners of the world last three days. Even some like you, with your cinder-breath. Not so special anymore, brother."
The monk gave Alfred a sly wink and opened the heavy doors. Alfred swallowed and stepped through into the council chamber.
Many eyes turned towards him and the debate ceased. Alfred stood before a vast oval table in a high vaulted chamber. Well illuminated from a wall length stained glass window and several clusters of candles. After weeks of quiet contemplation and training, surrounded only by the holy order at Ironghast, a shock to see such an eclectic bunch in one place.
So many eyes burning into him as the last few words of the conversation he had interrupted echoed around the alcoves. Alfred felt the old shame creep up his back. His face flushed and he looked to the floor and cleared his throat.
The familiar voice of Malkolm Bluheart, the head of the order, broke the awkwardness. He stood up and smoothed down his silver hair.
"May I present Alfred Durnling, with us for several weeks. He is another of the aspirants bearing Angall's Whisper."
Aspirant? Alfred still wasn't sure what he was aspiring to, but had been told that all would be explained during this council. He looked up with a sheepish grin. The council mostly human, old and young. Peppered amongst them some of the Old Races. Strange creatures that Alfred had thought either extinct or from myth. A few weeks ago his jaw would have dropped at sight of such beings, but he had seen enough eldritch things in Ironghast since he arrived.
Alfred's eyes drawn to a few young people sat at the huge table. They stared at him with particular interest. Alfred sensed that these were the other aspirants that Bluheart mentioned. Every one of them looked lean and tough compared to Alfred.
A bulky man with feral sideburns snorted across the table at Bluheart.
"Hah. Another pup. Like the rest. Not one of them's seen a war. This one looks like he's never seen a woman, for light's sake. And these are who we're relying on in these dark times. We're all damned."
Alfred didn't know where to look. The big man wrapped his furs around him and glared at him with derision. Malkolm Bluheart offered a kind smile and pulled a chair out for Alfred.
"Please Alfred, sit. We have a lot to discuss."
Alfred moved across and took his place. He fixed his gaze on a blemish in the table and gave a little nod. Bluheart spoke across the table.
"This is everyone's war, Lisell. It will be fought across the world on many fronts. And we each have our part to play. I'll wager that even a winter-hardened steppes shaman like yourself would balk if you had to follow the path that this young man has ahead of him."
Alfred glanced sidelong at Bluheart and frowned. There it was again. That ominous talk about Alfred's future that he had heard since arriving. It sent a shiver down his back.
On Alfred's left sat Invar Ironbound. He looked a world apart from the shambling drunk Alfred had first met on arrival. His face still scarred and lined, but now his beard trimmed and hair pulled back. He wore light grey robes over dark ringmail and a phoenix emblazoned on his chest. He looked more like a knight than a monk now, which he was. The last Knight of the Blaze. The one who had been given care of the last Manticore egg so long ago.
Malkolm Bluheart rapped his pewter cup on the table and coughed for attention. The murmuring died down.
"Are we all here?"
The gruff northern shaman Lisell peered around the table at the motley band of refugees and relics. He scratched the black stubble of his chin.
"Is this us? Is this all there is left?"
Bluheart nodded.
"Never many sons of men born with the Magus Heart, Lisell. Even in the best of times. Even you are the first true shaman born in thirty years, are you not?"
The shaman gave a gruff nod. Bluheart shrugged.
"As for the Old Races, they are from another age and always rare. And the more beautiful for it. Most of the others gathered here have avoided men for centuries. Living in deep forests or high mountains. Beyond our reach. But we all share the same fate now, every last one of us. The Sorrow does not discern. It is the sorcery in their blood it craves, to nouris
h itself. And in yours. It will leave you a husk and then warp your form to something more useful to its purposes."
The shaman seemed nervous and drew his cloak further around himself as if cold.
"If the dreams and visions plaguing me are anything to go by, it's too late for all of us.”
Invar Ironbound took a deep draft of gritty beer from a wooden cup before him. He smacked his lips and then fixed eyes on the shaman. His voice a harsh rumble.
"That's the fighting spirit that will get us through this, Lisell. Why don't you just turn into a crow, or whatever it is you do, and perch on my shoulder as a harbinger of doom? You can tell me how hopeless everything is while I'm charging into battle."
Lisell hunched his shoulders and mumbled.
"I'm not the only one having dreams."
This got Alfred's attention.
For months now the nightmares had plagued him. Awful apocalyptic scenes that galloped through his sleeping world. And something guiding it all. Something ancient and patient that huddled in a glass reliquary. Like a toad in a giant hourglass. He had not been blessed with one good night's sleep since he arrived at the monastery.
Ironbound spoke across the table again.
"Stop disguising your terror as cynicism, it's not washing with us. Fear is our friend, it reminds us what we all have to lose. Channel it and make do."
A stately woman with cropped grey hair and a dress of green moss addressed the group. Her eyes large and almond shaped, their expression spoke of charity.
"Some seats remain empty. Who do we wait for?"
Malkolm Bluheart sat up and poured himself a cup of water.
"There are a few stragglers for these empty seats. The last of us are arriving now in fact."
He looked across to one of the far alcoves as doors opened. A trundling came from a gloomy archway at the far end of the chamber. The gathered turned towards it. Something rattled as it drew into the light. Alfred saw the eyes glittering in the dark before he saw anything else. His heart quickened as he realized what was being brought into the chamber. He turned to Master Bluheart and whispered.
A Prayer of Freaks and Sinners Page 2