"He's part of this council? How do we know he won't just kill every one of us as soon as he sits down?"
Malcom Bluheart gave Alfred a kindly smile and beckoned him to remain calm. He leaned in and whispered back.
"Steps have been taken to ensure our safety. We cannot dismiss the intelligence and cunning this one brings to the table. The world belongs to all of us, even the predators."
A metal cage trundled into the chamber, pushed by four sweating monks. Made of slowiron bars as thick as a man's wrist. Crossed to fill any gaps where claws or barbs could slip through. Nine feet high and almost as wide. The thing inside filled it.
Inside the cage the last Manticore in the world.
The strongest, deadliest and craftiest of its race that had ever lived. Because Manticores absorb the power and souls of their own dead. This one creature. But also a vessel for the entire history, strength and wisdom of its race. A Pridelord of all Pridelords. Despite its narrow confines, the beast sat proud and regal. It cast its eyes across the room and analyzed them all.
Alfred held his breath as the creature pushed into the chamber. Wood and iron wheels reverberated across the flagstones until it came to rest at the edge of the table. Filling the space between two nervous human conjurers.
A harsh squawk of disapproval from the far end of the table.
Alfred looked across and stared at one of the last surviving Ragles in the western world. The face angular and lined with dark feathers. The beak short and curved. Serrated. Deep set yellow eyes peered with disdain.
"He has voice here? The grudges between our two races run deep and old. I would not fight and die for a world to leave this one a place in it."
The monster inside the cage gave a deadly smile. Its voice sonorous and charming. It almost hypnotized everyone who heard it. Alfred watched in fear as the Manticore's face drew close to the bars.
"Well, it's good to see you too, old boy. Last of the flock, are we? Is there anything more lonely looking, Bluheart, than a solitary bird? Chirping out into the night for a mate it'll never find."
The sinewy Ragle twitched and flexed his considerable talons.
"Bold words for a beast in chains and locked behind bars. Go on, keep mocking, kitty."
The Manticore looked the aquiline being up and down. He kept his disarming grin.
"This slowiron is for your protection, not mine, Gull. Our dull and goodly Paladin friend thought it the most convenient way to help the council run. Isn't that right, Iron wit?"
Invar Ironbound put down his beer and frowned at the beast. He sucked his teeth.
"If up to me you'd be down in the dark where you belong. But you have a part to play like the rest of us doomed species. But don't try to hold court or manipulate anyone here, or it's back into the dungeons for you. Am I clear?"
The beast nodded, rattling the metallic spines in his mane.
"Crystal. I'm here to be of service any way I can. We're all in the same sinking ship, us old breeds. I'm sure we just have to find a way to get along and trust each other."
The Manticore offered his charming death-grin to the room. A shiver ran around the table.
A balding man with ruddy face spoke up.
"Can't deny it, the beast speaks the truth. We are all we have left. Need to put old differences aside and find common ground. Or we're all done for."
Invar Ironbound grunted and flicked his blue eyes across the table.
"True. We're the scraps at the table not yet consumed. Leftovers. The Sorrow is just waiting to mop us up with a chunk of bread if we're not careful. But I'm not one for being anyone's meal."
The twitchy Ragle cast its round yellow eyes at the Manticore in the cage.
"That one in the cage, he sees us all in terms of a meal. When are these good people going to execute you and be done with it?"
A black tongue slid forth and the Manticore licked its lips.
"Would someone be so kind as to get him some birdseed or something? He can peck away at the table while we're making our plans for war."
Malkolm Bluheart stood up and sighed. He raised his hands to placate the group.
"If we can all bite our tongues and be civil for a moment. We will begin and the latecomers can pick up as they can."
He cast his calm pale eyes about the room until it settled.
"We here in this room, this band of half-breeds and forgotten. We are the last of the world as it once was. There was a time this world blazed with sorcery. Like a beacon hanging amongst the stars. Even brighter than stars. It made our world a place of terrible and beautiful wonders. But it also made it...conspicuous. It shone its magic out into the heavens and glimmered there. The Sorrow, like a magpie, saw us shine and was drawn to us. To consume us. That thief of worlds. "
Bluheart turned to Invar Ironbound and nodded. The old Paladin stood up with a grunt and flexed out his broad shoulders. He glugged down the last of his beer and glared at the room with bloodshot eyes. Alfred respected the old man with every fiber of his being, but still intimidated by him. Invar the old drunk in the corner of the tavern no one wanted to mess with.
He snorted up some snot and spoke.
"This threat that plagues us. We all know the myths and legends, half-truths and tales from our grandfathers. There are some better resources in the library here at Ironghast for those with a mind to read. Wherever we've come from, we can all see around us the damage the last war against this force did to our lands. We're a world of scars. Scars remind us what we went through, and that we lived. We thought we'd killed the last of it off, a thousand years ago or more. But it's like a weed. We can burn the fields, but only one, tiny part of it needs to survive beneath the soil to one day grow again. We didn't kill it all. We weren't thorough. Wasn't dead. Just hibernating. Waiting for us to get complacent and weak. Just picking us off in the night. But now, it's shown itself. It's not hiding anymore. And it's ready to face us in open battle. So we need to be ready to meet it head on. "
The kind faced woman with the scrubby grey hair shook her head. The almond eyes glistened with tears.
"How do we fight such a thing? No mercy or kindness within it. It doesn't want to rule us or even enslave us. It just wants to cover the world like algae covers and suffocates a pond."
Invar nodded.
"You're right." Invar gazed about the room. "She's right. There's no parley with something like this. You might all just want to till fields and raise children, you might just be decent folks without a bad bone in you. But you have to find your anger. Your rage. All of you. You'll get no quarter from this enemy, not a spit of mercy, as you said, Morvine. This is a war for your right to breathe. And you're all going to have to go to places in your souls that you might not like. War's a filthy game, there's no glory to it. But it's a job needs done."
A murmur about the table as the council tried to curb its fears. Malkolm Bluheart stood up once again, smiling to the table.
"My martial friend makes good points, but if I can make a point of faith, Angall is the light in dark nights. It isn't just the worst of us that comes out in war. We can be our best selves in direst circumstance too. We can share-"
The chamber doors opened with a groan and the two armed monks shuffled in. The thin faced one that had spoken to Alfred gave a short bow of apology.
"Father Bluheart, forgive the intrusion. There are two more latecomers to the council. They have travelled far from the south. Shall I show them in?"
Bluheart seemed puzzled by the nervous demeanor of his guards. He blinked a few times then nodded.
"Of course. We welcome all the strength we can get to our ranks. Please."
Alfred felt the strangest tingle up his spine. Like a golden thread being unspooled within him. He turned to the open door and his heart pounded in his ears. A shadow loomed out in the hallway and bickering drifted in. A small high voice and a very deep one whispering. Alfred had the oddest feeling of having played this moment before, many times as he slept. Afraid of whoever stood
out in that hallway, yet he longed for it.
The wiry monks bowed and ushered the latecomers to enter. A quiet collective gasp as a very pale red haired girl of about Alfred's age strode into the chamber. As wiry as an urchin and short, but she walked with the air of a prize-fighter thrice her size. It should have looked ridiculous bit it didn't. It was intimidating. She wore cobbled together armour from about ten different countries and a raggedy fox fur cloak that seemed an extension of her hair. It looked like the journey to Ironghast had been long and hard. A streak of grime across her cheek and she chewed on a hunk of dark bread. She stopped inside the door and glared about the room. Her icy eyes a challenge to all.
What loped in behind her that made everyone breathe in.
A hulking fur covered brute that needed to duck under the door frame to enter. Like a great bear had been bred with a highland stag. The face an ugly thug of a man's, but the rest bestial. It glowered across the table and then took a strip off a cured turkey leg it held in one massive hand.
They stood there in the doorway chewing with their mouths open, surveying the scene. The delinquent and the brute. The girl swallowed hard, struggling to get the bread down without water. She spoke to no one in particular.
"Kitchens tried to give us some food. Bugs or something. Nope."
Malcom Bluheart gave a nervous smile and spread his hands.
"Well, then it's good you brought a snack. All wanderers are welcome here, all of us with the Magus. You're safe in these walls for now, both of you. Please, sit. We will value your input in the war council."
The girl narrowed her eyes and weighed up Malkolm Bluheart. Then she nodded and strode across the chamber to an empty chair. Her protector followed.
The huge beastman stopped mid-step and stood staring at the Manticore. His brow furrowed and his sneer showed deadly fangs. His voice a bear’s' snarl.
"I'm standing in a room full of pink and brown little men. One of the Old Races in a cage. Not liking this dynamic. Bit too familiar."
Bluheart raised his hands and spoke.
"I can assure you it is for the safety of all. But none here have any doubts as to our real enemy. It's a precaution nothing more."
The beast man shook his head and made a move towards the incarcerated Manticore.
"We're not your pet dogs to let loose against your enemies. I've seen you put our kind in cages before. He sits with the rest of us or I unlock him myself."
Invar Ironbound on his feet in a rattle of mail. He stood square before the beast man. His hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword, drawn. His voice quiet but threatening. A pale wisp of golden light drifted from the exposed blade.
"That one stays in. Touch that cage, and I'll feed you to him through the bars."
The beastman crouched down, making him look far more beast than man. He flexed the claws of his hands.
"Tin man. Little crusader. That sword comes out its sheath and I'm shoving it where your god Angall's light can't reach."
From behind them the smooth sing-song voice of the Manticore came through the bars.
"While I appreciate the sentiment, my hirsute friend, I'm afraid Sir Iron Balls is quite right. If you let me out I likely will try to kill everyone in the room. Can't help myself. It's just an itch."
Malkolm Bluheart on his feet, trying to calm them both. He stepped between the two glaring fighters, kept his voice easy and conversational.
"You are Karkaren, yes? I know the suffering the lands of men have inflicted on your kind. It might have been the hand of men that burned your forests. But the mind belonged to the Sorrow. We were tricked, all of us. Even our King. We're all different here, and all in danger. Each other is all we have now. The Magus Heart, the sorcery in our blood, it marks us all as brothers, whatever the skin. Please, sit and join us."
The beastman gave a low growl and narrowed his eyes at Invar. He stood up to his full height and sheathed his claws. He gave a cursory nod to the Manticore and then walked to his vacant seat with a sigh.
"Tell your little zealot he can breathe out. Not here for him."
Invar stood still as a statue until the Karkaren had sat down. Then he let is sword fall the inch back into its sheath and a few motes of holy light drifted up into the air and dissipated. Invar resumed his seat. His face stony. The Karkaren raised an eyebrow at the knight and nudged the girl with a furred elbow.
"See child. There's your first glimpse a holy warrior. Take heed, because that's your future if you keep up with all this flaming sword, burning light of Angall nonsense. That there is no role model."
The girl stared at Invar Ironbound in complete awe. As if she had seen a character from a storybook stride from the pages. Her wide eyes took in his armour, his scarred face. The combative attitude she had entered the chamber with had vanished in that moment. She whispered under her breath.
"Knight of the Blaze."
Alfred realized that he stared at the girl with the same glazed intensity.
It's her.
The ferocious red haired girl Alfred had seen during his prayers in the seminary. The one cleaving her way through a wall of monsters in his nightmares. The one who fiercer than any of the tentacled creatures attacking their world. The shield maiden that had terrified and inspired him in equal measure. But in his dreams a little older, armored and full of raging magic.
Alfred found himself gazing at her small pointed nose, the pink petulant pucker of her lips. He marveled at her defiant demeanor now melted to wonder. Her blue eyes that peered so at...
She looked at him.
"Alfred." Alfred's voice said.
"What?" The girl replied.
Alfred took a second to realize he had spoken aloud. He cleared his throat and tried again.
"Al...Alfred."
She stared at him in baffled contempt.
"What about it?"
"It's my name. I'm Alfred."
She glared at him unblinking for a long moment.
"Well done."
The girl rolled her eyes and resumed facing front. Although Alfred caught a curious glance askance at him. As if some part of her recognized him.
Alfred looked back down at the table and his cheeks flushed. He felt a conflicting maelstrom of emotions. The most unfriendly, harsh, filthy, and petulant person he had ever encountered. Also the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Fire encased in cool marble. Scared to look at her but desperate to do so. Alfred had minimal experience with women, and then it had only been flirting with barmaids in Old Vassonia's taverns. This was a new sensation for him. A little overwhelming and he wasn't sure if he liked it. This raggedy girl a stranger to him, and yet he had met her in his visions and dreams so many times. Always in the heat of some gargantuan battle.
The awkwardness broken by Bluheart.
"Welcome, newcomers, to our council of war. I was told of your arrival. You've both had a long journey from the south, and entangled with Royal Witchfinders along the way as I hear it. Anyone who gets one over on those foul ravens is a friend of ours. It's Cyrus Blackweather, I believe, and your name is Deena Sanda?"
Alfred mouthed the word as if a sacred prayer.
Deena.
The hulking beastman next to Deena grunted.
"It's Captain Cyrus Blackweather. And I'm not here for your war. I'm here for compensation."
Malkolm Bluheart looked puzzled but asked.
"Compensation for what, sir?"
Cyrus scowled at the table then fixed Bluheart's gaze.
"I've given up my ship, my crew, the merchandise in my hold, and the price I would have got for this ginger whelp. All to get her here to the ends of the world. I might come here in rags, but I'm leaving with the silverware, rest assured."
A disquiet murmur rippled through the council. The Shaman Lisell spoke up.
"Cyrus Blackweather? I know that name. You're a smuggler of sorcerous goods, a pirate and the terror of the southern seas, as I heard it. Left quite the reputation and quite the trail of bodies behind
you."
Cyrus curled his lips.
"That trail needn't end here, whisker face."
The shaman Lisell looked at Cyrus Blackweather and his harsh expression changed. He had an expression almost of pity and disappointment.
"You are Karkaren. A race of druids and nature magi. A very, very old race. My people, the frost-shaman, we used to meet with your kind sometimes in the forests. At harvest times and winter equinox. In the early days, some of my ancestors worshipped your ancestors as woodland gods. I didn't think any remained. But now I see there is one. Forgotten by the trees and the moon."
Cyrus glared back at the shaman with contempt and looked about to bark back a response. Then his gaze faltered and he peered at the table. He almost looked ashamed. Deena's hand reached over and touched his massive clawed hand. Cyrus muttered.
"Just get me enough reward for bringing the girl, so I can get away from this gathering of men. The stench of you lot is unbearable."
Bluheart smiled at Cyrus and gave him a tiny bow.
"We would welcome your strength and your skills. But we're all free people here, until the Sorrow comes. Your choices are your own. We will scrape together as much as we can as reward from bringing Deena here to us. You have done something very noble at great risk. We are grateful. She is very precious to us here at Ironghast. She is after all, an aspirant who bears Angall's Whisper."
Alfred's head snapped up and he stared at the girl once more.
She's like me. I knew it.
Alfred's late master, Phillip of Tyne, had told him once, long ago in Old Vassonia before the world upended, that he was not the only one with his unusual blessing. Others awakened all across the world. People with blessings from Angall hidden in their bloodlines that would only spark into life if the Sorrow ever returned.
He glanced around the huge table and marked out the others he thought shared their abnormality. He counted eight. All young, all looking a little bewildered that the gods had picked them. Alfred wondered if they, like him, all thought that a mistake had been made and the wrong person chosen.
This girl Deena didn't seem confused. She looked born to fight. He wanted to look upon her again but remembered he was still an acolyte of Angall's temple and therefore had taken vows of chastity and purity. He didn't feel very pure at that moment as he glanced at her pale slender neck.
A Prayer of Freaks and Sinners Page 3