"My Lord, we have discovered the location of the blessed that we hunt."
Oligan raised a brow beneath his mask.
"We have? How?"
Merrick's bandages wrinkled in a satisfied smile.
"I had sent spies far and wide to root out the last vestiges of your warped subjects. Many of them I had lost contact with. But this morning we received an important message. From a spy I thought long lost and forgotten."
Oligan and his Witchfinder walked through the dark archway into the headquarters of the inquisition. Cold and sterile within, the stone scrubbed clean until the mica within glittered in the torchlight. A place of iron discipline, joyless prayer and pragmatic torture.
"Where are they?"
The Witchfinder rubbed one of his scarred hands with the other, stretching out the inflexible burned skin.
"A place I thought long abandoned and forgotten. Last mentioned so long ago that it did not even enter into my calculations. A monastery far in the north western wastelands whose name few have heard since the first war."
Oligan saw the annoyance in the Witchfinder's face. He had learned of one thing that chewed at Merrick Clay, not finding his quarry. He had hunted some of the warped for years across continents. But this one irked him the most. He seemed angry at himself that he had overlooked the possibility of such a refuge still existing. Oligan shrugged, thinking it now a simple matter.
"So you will send a Witchfinder to dispatch these few stragglers?"
Merrick's eyes narrowed as he limped down the cold stone corridor.
"To this place? No, old friend. This place, Ironghast Monastery, a fortress in the old days, nigh impregnable. If it still stands intact, it will take much to penetrate. It is not one but all of the Witchfinders I am sending. Two hundred brothers and sisters of vicissitude, strong with magic and harsh of judgement. Their lancets will be keen and do their work. But that is not our greatest challenge, my Lord."
Oligan hated the way Merrick Clay addressed him as king. Every your majesty or my lord felt like a smug insult to a child who had dressed as an adult. Merrick never anything other than polite and deferential, but disdain drifted from his every pore. Not for the first time, Oligan felt grateful for his mask. He could not conceal the expression of hatred on his burned face. This thin man had manipulated and used him, made him a fool-king, and now walked again by his side as his closest council. He could barely keep his hands off the Witchfinder's scrawny neck. Yet he too kept his voice calm and level. He would bide his time before he struck.
"Do our challenges ever end, Merrick?"
Merrick's bandages twisted in a lop-sided grin. He gave a small shake of his head.
"This monastery. The word from my spy tells me that all manner of refugees are housed there. Foul aberrations and stragglers from Old Races that I thought wiped clean from the earth. But more than that, every human blessed with this accursed Angall's Whisper is sheltered there. They think themselves clever, concealing themselves from me amidst the swirling storms of magic, but all they have done is put all the rats in one place."
They stopped in a huge gloomy chamber. At its centre a wide hole surrounded by a low wall. It seemed like a giant's wishing well. A rank purple smoke drifted up from it that reeked of sulphur. Surrounding the void a circle of men and women in black silken robes and hoods, their heads bowed to the pit. Oligan estimated over a hundred and fifty Witchfinders. Oligan and Merrick stood in the doorway and watched as the Witchfinders murmured a prayer in a harsh language unlike any the king knew. He glanced at Merrick, whose head now also bowed. His lips moved beneath the bandages and his eyes had rolled up flickering white.
Oligan observed the exposed skin around Merrick's dressings, and the backs of his hands. Whatever Merrick had encountered pursuing that girl in the south, it had been more than he expected. The Witchfinders hands, thick with livid scars, still looked angry. Around his eyes scabs and lesions, open wounds where skin was too damaged to heal. Oligan still felt pain in his own scars after forty years, so could not imagine the pain that Merrick was in. The Witchfinder had a twisted fetish for pain, including his own, but Oligan could see that he was at the limits of tolerance. Oligan had witnessed the raw magical power of Merrick Clay before. The Witchfinder, an ossomancer and could snap the bones of any man with a thought. But he had been bested by something out of his ken.
"Merrick, you encountered one of these blessed in Dashai. What was she like? What magic can she channel that could harm you so? I have never seen you weakened."
Merrick's eyes flickered and opened. They slid to the side to regard Oligan with contempt. He flexed his savaged fingers and looked at the map of tight scars crisscrossing his skin. He took a ragged breath and whispered.
"A foul creature, more foul even than the obsolete Karkaren who protected her. Saturated with debased magic, vile unhallowed light that crested from her every pore. Everything about her burned and offended my senses. Her and that other one. The failed young male priest who escaped me at Old Vassonia. I'll have that little bastard fed to the Green King as well."
Oligan saw the hint of something in Merrick's eyes that he had never witnessed before. He spoke before thinking.
"You fear them."
Merrick spat beneath his filthy dressings.
"I fear no one, your majesty. But what they and their wicked kin are polluted by is poison to our beloved Sorrow. It is an unkind light that burns and kindles. Hurting me is nothing, I am just a servant. But hurting god? That cannot go unpunished."
Oligan looked up and saw that the hooded and robed Witchfinders had stopped praying. They all turned as one towards him and drew back their cowls. With their shaven heads and starved wiry bodies, men indistinguishable from women. The other thing they shared, a pinched and twisted expression of discipline and intolerance. Merrick limped forward and addressed them.
"Brothers and sisters. I have drawn you all back to temple because this task we must accomplish together. We have a golden opportunity to scrub the land clean of the last dregs of polluted flesh. And give the magic that flesh traps back to its rightful owner, the belly of god. Feed your horses and drink deep of the well tonight. Pray and prepare your judgement. For there are abhorrent souls to cleanse. Tomorrow we set out far to the North West. To Ironghast Monastery. We lay siege to magic and to polluted blood. Sharpen your plague lancets, brothers and sisters. For soon you will have a host of fresh Magus Hearts to excise, and bring their light back to the Green King."
Oligan watched as a hundred thin sharp blades unsheathed with a collective whisper. They glimmered in the torchlight. The king had seen what they did to people using those knives. He still remembered the screams.
Oligan felt the heat of hate from the Witchfinder. The king hoped that these poor hunted young people would burn the putrid filth of the Sorrow from the world with their secret light, and that would be Merrick alive to see it. But he knew they could not. What hope did a motley band of runaways have against a power beyond all human comprehension? Against hate so uncompromising? No, each of them would be held down and surgery performed on them while still alive, kicking and screaming and praying to gods who would not answer.
9
It lay before them at the end of a long valley. Huge broken rocks sat shattered along their route and geysers of hot ash sprayed fumes into the air.
The Torrent, a mile across. A fuming mass of stormclouds twisted into a bulging lumpy sphere. It rippled and undulated, growing boils of churning vapor that burst into lightning and deflated. No visibility through the maelstrom. No way to gage what lay inside. Only what myths and old books had told them. And visions.
Alfred and Deena had not spoken with the other aspirants about their recurring visions. Some part of them wanted to believe that it a freak coincidence that they both shared waking dreams. If happening to the others too, that would dispel all doubts. They would know that what lay ahead of them was nothing but nightmares and death.
Peyter leaned across on his h
orse and spat a gobbet of phlegm onto the ground. He shrugged at the Torrent.
"Looks bigger up close."
Deena rolled her eyes at the flat faced lad and spurred her horse past him.
"Things do, idiot."
Peyter opened his mouth to reply, but smart ripostes not being his strength, he sat in his saddle and grumbled, glancing at the Torrent growing ever closer.
Deena rode up level to Invar, who sat like a hunched bear on his big horse. A grey fur drawn around him and his beard flecked with frost. Deena gave him a respectful little nod and spoke.
"So what's the plan master Invar? What do the books tell us about getting inside?"
Invar raised a snow dusted brow.
"Very little, I'm afraid. Although our good brother Latherus states that he just released Angall's Whisper when he was next to the maelstrom, and it opened for him. Your fellow aspirant Alfred over there managed to translate something similar from some of the old texts. Isn't that right Alfred?"
Alfred looked up when he heard his name. He had been lost in his own private terrors. His hands gripped the reins so hard his knuckles had turned white. He had woken up before dawn, staring at the grey stone ceiling, and trying to figure a way out of this day. He had built up some courage over the past week, but it had drained from him this morning like a puddle beneath melting ice. He looked up and saw Invar and Deena staring at him, both with a familiar air of impatience and sour temper. Alfred cleared his throat but his voice still quavered a bit.
"Erm, yes, that's correct. It seems our little puff of holy fire is good for more than lighting candles, or sinking ships as I’ve heard in your case Deena."
Deena, in no mood for japery, just scowled at him then resumed her slow canter onwards. The straw haired girl Farah drew her hood back and stared at the Torrent ahead.
"We just ride straight up to it and wave our hands about until something happens?"
Sebastian snorted at her. He sat tall and regal in his saddle, his shoulder-length blonde hair blowing. He looked every inch an arrogant prince.
"Oh stop complaining Farah. You should be proud of what we're doing. Once you have found your angel and communed, you will be a queen amongst humanity, fit to wear a crown. One that covers that dratted hair."
Farah ran a hand through her greasy frizz of strawberry blonde and looked down at her saddle ashamed. Invar cast the boy a withering glare. His gravelly growl drifted across.
"You'll be a servant of Angall, to a life of sacrifice and duty. Not duke or duchess of anything but piss. Now keep your eyes on the path."
Sebastian pretended this hadn't affected him but his pale cheeks went rosy. Alfred checked his horse and rode closer to Farah. He leaned in his saddle and spoke.
"I'd rather have your hair than his."
Farah glanced up at him, uncertain if he ridiculed her further. When she saw his expression she could not suppress a little smile. Alfred winked.
"Never mind him. We'll all look after each other in there. And don't worry about being scared."
Farah raised her freckled face to him, her eyes hopeful.
"Are you?"
Alfred gave her a little shrug and sat back in his saddle.
"I would say more terrified. I'm not sure if I can let go of these reins now. We may have to take the horse in all the way."
Farah looked at him for a moment and then chuckled. After that she sat a little taller and looked straight ahead to their churning unnatural destination.
Ahead to Alfred's right, Deena rode on until she drew level with Cyrus Blackweather. The Karkaren riding a huge hairy creature with horns and cloven hooves. It stank to high heaven and buzzed with flied but it seemed devoted to him. He had arrived on it and Alfred assumed it must be some sort of creature from the south. He realized he stared at Deena like an idiot again. She was engaged in low conversation with the giant pirate, and his frightening face dark. Alfred broke his gaze and forced himself to look ahead. He could see the churning dark clouds more now, bringing up clods of earth and grass and dragging them around in its inner turmoil. The air stank the strange metallic reek of spent lightning. Alfred's stomach also in turmoil from the jug of wine he polished off the night before, and craving thick rashers of bacon to fill it. He doubted he would ever taste such delicacies as bacon again.
Twenty yards ahead, Invar Ironbound brought his horse to a stop. Alfred frowned and slowed down next to him.
"Invar. You're not coming to the edge?"
The old knight seemed in conflict. He furrowed his brow and could not meet Alfred's eye.
"I hate abandoning you in your moment of greatest danger, Alfred. But if you succeed in there, you will need that missing prayer from Angall’s Libram. We have to get it before the Sorrow does. So I cannot wait. I must ride hard to Crowburgh."
Alfred felt very alone. Since their first meeting battling the wendigo in the Bleaks, Invar had always been there. His true nature so hidden back then. But now Alfred relied on him for his wisdom and strength. He wanted to tell Invar this. That he was the Knight of the Blaze Alfred hoped he could be one day. Instead he checked his feelings and gave his mentor a fleeting grin.
"I’ve heard they do good beer there, Master Invar."
Invar gave Alfred a hard glare that broke into a smile.
"It’d be rude not to try the local stuff.”
Alfred felt another pang of fear, but not for himself or the Torrent he would ride into. He had lost so many people since this all began. Braver, stronger, more worthy people than he regarded himself as. He was not ready to lose anyone else.
"Thank you for preparing us for what’s in there. For what you’ve taught me.”
Invar gave a husky chuckle. He looked up to the clouds rolling dark over the mountains around them.
“Hah, he thinks I’ve prepared him.”
Then he turned his craggy face to the boy with a smile.
"I have the light of god at my back. And good steel. And a willing heart. It's not my first time out of Ironghast, lad."
Alfred had seen Invar fight, and could only guess at half the adventures he had become embroiled in over the course of his long life. As capable a man as Alfred had ever seen, and he did have the light of Angall within him. But it didn't ease his worry.
"You're doing what a paladin is supposed to do, master. I would expect no less of you. If you find the missing page, I hope I have the skill and power in me to use it."
Invar gave a grim nod and extended his gauntlet. Alfred shook his hand and the grip like a vice. Invar gave him a few parting words.
"Years ago, Alfred, about your age. My master, Ulric Godwine gave me a task that I felt not ready for. Inexperienced like you, and had never swung a sword in anger. Just a boy on a horse with a Manticore egg in his bag, riding into the complete unknown had nothing to go on but my visions and a modicum of grit. It wasn't a straight road and no moment where it all made sense. It happened in small increments, every day of my journey. And it's the same for you. It's not the big sweeping gestures that will make you a paladin, Alfred. It's the little quiet moments. Like reassuring Farah there when her heart faltered. It's details like that, lad, that tell me you are the right person for this task. You'll see them right in there, and you don't think it now, but they will look to you in the direst times."
Alfred could not conceal the shock on his face. After a lifetime of always being the one in trouble, shirking responsibility and being the subject of low expectations, he couldn't remember an occasion when anyone had said something like this to him. It had the unexpected effect of making him want to live up to expectations, rather than live down to them.
He nodded to Invar and returned the handshake.
"By steel, by light and by heart we will find what we need in there to win this war. I'll look after them in there. And when next you see me, you may be surprised at the man that greets you."
Alfred didn't believe it, but he put as much conviction into his voice as he could muster. Invar released Alfred'
s hand and spurred his horse around back towards Ironghast. He gave the boy one final glance.
"I'm already surprised, Alfred. Angall shine on you."
"And on you."
Then Invar ironbound galloped off to the south east in the direction of distant Crowburgh.
And then the small group of dark-robed aspirants were without guidance, except for the handful of monks that escorted them to the borders of the Torrent. And Father Bluheart, the head of the order at Ironghast.
The path grew more rocky and dangerous as they approached. The wild magic of the Torrent had scored the earth over the centuries. A few hobbled ruins stood scattered by the roadside. Remnants of the forgotten city that stood there. A city that the monastery of Ironghast was once part of. The snow began to fall heavier as they drew closer to the unnatural maelstrom.
A deep rumbling emanated from within, a show of power. The blue stench of burnt magic assaulted their noses. Up close the scale of the Torrent overwhelmed them. The aspirants slowed their horses and sat in a loose line before it. On the old road around them shattered marble pillars, and the body parts of various dismembered statues. Alfred's every instinct screaming at him not to step through. The sparse grass and stones beneath him represented stability and predictability. Like standing on a safe beach at the very edge of a deep kraken-filled ocean.
Malkolm Bluheart rode his horse before the aspirants. The handful of guardian monks spread out, keeping watch. Bluheart looked tired. His shocking white hair stuck out from beneath his hood but his eyes retained their kindness and compassion.
"Good aspirants. Blessed of Lord Angall, vessels for the holy light. I know that what we ask of you today is no small thing. No one can force any of you to take another step forward. Our magic makes us strong in different ways. But we are and always have been but a few. We are hunted and persecuted. By Witchfinders, by the agents of the Sorrow, and at times by ordinary folk who fear what they don't know. We have found a refuge in Ironghast kept us hidden and safe for a thousand years. But we are not safe here any longer. The spies of the king found us even here, and we have to assume that his message reached the ears of the Witchfinders. They will be coming for us. They likely have left there cold temples and armed themselves. We will keep watch on the horizon. So once you are inside the Torrent, time is of the essence. Once you enter, you will be beyond our prayers and our seers. But rely on each other. Trust in the Light. And do not let your courage waver. The Sorrow knows what you fear. It is sly and subtle, and will use it if it can. Angall be with you this day. Now gather your Light into your chest. Hold it firm and let it brighten. Then release it upon the wall of storms."
A Prayer of Freaks and Sinners Page 10