A Prayer of Dusk and Fury

by D Elias Jenkins

  Alfred adopted a humble demeanour and lowered his gaze.

  "I suppose I did, master. But what I saw was not like a wendigo or a Dusk-Bear or any such thing. What I saw was a knight. A glowing, burning knight."

  Malkolm Bluheart took a hasty sip of wine and shook his head.

  "You must be mistaken Alfred. You had lost blood, you were terrified and exhausted. The mind can play many tricks in the Bleaks."

  Alfred tried to keep quiet and eat his supper, but before he knew it he had blurted out.

  "I did not imagine it. I saw a knight. Bigger than any man I have ever seen, on an ironclad charger. But it was aflame, father Malkolm. The knight and his mount burned inside as if from the cracks of a firemountain. Its voice was like a machine of wheels and gears, like tearing steel. It arrived from nowhere and cut the wendigo down as if they were mere children. Then it looked at me, eyes of molten metal, before vanishing off into the mist."

  Kobold sat back and took a big glug of wine. He belched and shouted down the table.

  “I’ve seen many a strange thing out there, boy, but that’s just piss and wind.”

  Malkolm Bluheart spoke to Alfred, a hand on his sleeve.

  "Perhaps the mist played a trick on you Alfred."

  Alfred swallowed before he spoke.

  "I saw it again tonight from the high window of my dormitory. It blazed a burning trail across the Bleaks and moved faster than anything I have ever seen. Towards the monastery."

  Bluheart gave him a patient smile.

  "I think if such an entity resided here with us in Ironghast, that perhaps one or two of the monks might have noticed, Alfred."

  Alfred turned to Kobold, sat down the end of the table, observing his broad shoulders and gnarled hands.

  "Brother Kobold, the knight I saw knew how to wield a sword like no man I have ever seen. In a way only a soldier with experience of battle would know."

  Kobold almost spat his wine.

  "What are you suggesting boy, that I sneak out at night in full armour to slay beasts like something from one of your children's stories?"

  Alfred let the question hang in the air for a moment.

  "Do you, brother?"

  Kobold slammed his cup down on the table and leaned forward, resting his brawny forearms on the wood.

  "Acolyte, I need to get up five times most nights to make water. My knees crack like old bark every time I stand. I fart when I cough. Am I running about the Bleaks with a broadsword at my age? No, you imbicile, I'm not. Besides, what you saw doesn't exist. A burning knight? Angall save us from your nonsense."

  Old Gumm looked up from his seat in the corner. Alfred had almost forgotten he was there. The placid, creaky old monk had an ability to blend into the furniture like a ragged blanket. He chewed his pipe and blew out a column of smoke. He shifted his bulk on the bench and his grizzled voice drifted out from beneath his hood.

  "The boy isn't lying. What he is describing is a paladin. A Knight of the Blaze."

  Kobold tutted and picked up his wine.

  "Oh for Light's sake Gumm, did somebody wake you up? You're dreaming old man, go back to sleep."

  Kobold took a long draught and smacked his lips.

  "What next Papa Gumm, are you going to describe how gremlins stole your other pipe, your good one that you didn't just misplace?"

  There was a ripple of laughter amongst some of the younger monks. Malkolm Bluheart raised a hand and they stopped and resumed eating. Old Gumm gave a long rattling sigh from beneath his hood.

  "No. The gremlins of Ironghast never bothered me. But what he saw, was a paladin."

  Alfred cleared his throat, trying to diffuse the building tension.

  "Master Gumm, I have heard of the paladins. Forgive my ignorance, but they do not exist. Not anymore. Do they?"

  Kobold butted in with his rough voice.

  "Of course they don't, boy. Paladins channelled magic and they found themselves on King Oligan’s blacklist. He accused them of treason after the Manticore Wars. The Witchfinders killed the last one forty years ago. They were a menace, as I’ve heard, couldn't be controlled by anyone, they thought Angall spoke to them, sent them on missions as knights errant. They brought shame to the temple."

  Gumm glared out from beneath his hood, the pale blue eyes regarding Kobold with disdain.

  "They frightened the king because they answered only to god, and their purpose in life was to root out darkness and corruption. Wherever they found it. Even in the throne room itself. Why do you think that King Oligan had them all killed, an order that had existed for a thousand years brought down in the space of a few weeks? Killed by dark magic while they slept."

  Kobold grunted and stuffed another grub into his mouth.

  "They were fanatics, old man. I've no love for the king and what he's done, you all know that, but the world is still a safer place without those armoured zealots."

  Old Gumm took a puff of his pipe and leaned forward in his chair. The younger monks that were still present gathered up their bowls and scampered off to clean them in the kitchens, afraid of the gathering tension. Gumm looked at Alfred and pointed his pipe at him.

  "Actually, young Alfred, I'm not sure if Malkolm Bluheart has told you this, but your particular rare blessing was exclusively the preserve of paladins."

  Alfred sat up, a little shocked.

  "It was? I'm afraid I am no paladin, brother Gumm."

  Gumm leaned back in his chair. The grey bearded old monk seemed thoughtful and lost in the memory of his story. Alfred feared he had caught him in his cups and he would fall asleep mid tale, but the old man sucked on his pipe and spoke.

  "All paladins had the Magus Heart, but once in every hundred generations or so, a few paladins were born with a blessing from Angall himself. They were destined to commune with his sleeping angels, and give up their humanity for a greater cause. They would ascend past any Knight of the Blaze, they would become the living embodiment of his justice."

  Kobold spat his wine on the table and shook his head.

  "They were fanatics and madmen, crazy eyed prophets in plate armour. And swallowing the essence of a dead angel is the kind of insane, ridiculous thing they would do! Things like that should stay buried, lest they cannot differentiate between friend and foe and destroy us all!"

  Gumm sighed and picked up his wine. He drained the cup and then refilled it from a wooden jug. Alfred saw his bloodshot blue eyes search for him in their drunken haze. He looked old and defeated, as if telling his tale had exhausted him. He mumbled half to himself.

  "What do I know? Kobold might well be right. I've been cooped up half-cut in these walls for so many years now, for all I know there might not be a world outside anymore. I'll just hole up here and have a cup of wine until the Sorrow arrives at our door."

  The old monk then retreated into his own thoughts, and Kobold laughed. The red haired monk refilled his glass and resumed conversing with the monks next to him. Alfred continued to peer over at Gumm, feeling rather sorry for the old man, who appeared a little confused.

  Malkolm Bluheart tugged on Alfred's sleeve. He leaned in conspiratorially and whispered to him.

  "As I said, Alfred, we have an extensive library here in Ironghast. The scriptures and textbooks you have grown up with, they are not the only books in the world, you know. There are many other books, of history, of gods and goddesses, and of course of sorcery, that are no longer in circulation. They are either banned, heretical, believed destroyed or otherwise lost to man."

  Alfred longed to sit in such a library, perusing over old books and making notes.

  "I must admit, it would give me comfort to see such books. I was always more of a reader than a fighter. Or a priest, for that matter."

  Bluheart smiled and pulled a brass key from his robes. He held the chain out to Alfred and beckoned him to take it.

  "Three floors up, down the corridor until you reach the brass studded gate. You can find a book about the Paladin Order in the farthest
section from the door."

  Alfred tried to eat the rest of his supper, excited about the prospect of the library. In his peripheral vision, he could see the eyes of both Brother Kobold and Old Gumm staring over at him.

  7

  Deena peered through the bars of her bamboo prison cell and out of the narrow slat in the hull. She had dreamed with all her heart of seeing land again. Ad now she as she watched the coastline approaching it filled her with terror.

  Each wave that had lapped against the hull of the Apocalypse had been like the ticking of a clock for Deena. Counting down to the inevitable moment that she was sold into the slave markets of Dashai.

  She knew what waited for her there. Beatings in the holding pens, followed by a life of abuse and ignominious death. Her destination an unmarked grave or thrown into the sea. She had heard enough rumours.

  Deena served no master but Angall. Her god may have abandoned her to slavery and death, but that did not mean she had to abandon her god.

  She would find a way to take her own life before anyone could profit from her. That much she had promised Cyrus Blackweather. She would see the savage monster cheated of his gold if it was the last thing she ever did.

  After weeks at sea living in her cramped cell below deck, Deena was a pale wisp of her former self. She was skinny to begin with. But the meals of dry hard castle bread and twice daily water had made her a wiry and ghostly-pale creature.

  This was not the captain's doing. On the contrary, Blackweather had arrived to talk with her most evenings. Bringing cherries, slabs of bacon and rich red wine. Following that first night of such treats, Deena had thought it improper to accept the gifts of a monster who kept her in a cage. More mocking than merciful. She had limited herself to the rations that Sandman had brought her. And now she looked older than her sixteen years. Her red hair was lank and pasted to her sweating face, the flesh of her cheeks drawn and clammy.

  She had kept her teeth clean using a sliver of bamboo and sloshed her mouth out with water. But her ragged clothes and skin stank of sour sweat. She was ashamed to be seen before people in such a state. Even if it were a bunch of savage foreigners with bags of dirty gold.

  As the ship docked in the harbour, Deena's senses were assaulted with a myriad of sensations. That life at sea had made her forget. The cessation of rocking reduced to creaking in the walls of the sheltered harbour.

  She could hear seagulls again, calling out between the masts. She could hear the sounds of people going about their business in Dashai. Stevedores working crates on the piers, fishermen unloading their stinking nets of the day's catch. She could smell tobacco and street food. She could hear livestock being driven to the docks, sheep and camels.

  The air had a different quality too. A dry calmness that made Deena grateful despite her predicament. She could feel warm sand on the breeze, see it gathering in little pools in the corner of her cage. She could smell something familiar coming from one of the wharf-side stalls. A smell that made her mouth water.

  Dates. How Deena craved the sweet fibrous explosion of dates in her mouth. Spitting the stones on a plate and feeling the sweetness of the fruit infuse her limbs with energy. If she had one last meal before slavery and death, she prayed it would be a plate of the fattest dates.

  Her reverie was broken by a familiar presence.

  Captain Blackweather appeared outside the bamboo of her cage. He was dressed in a long dark brown leather coat that came almost to his taloned feet. Beneath this a white shirt covered the fur of his barrel chest. And on his legs he wore brown leather pantaloons that came to his knees. His hair had been braided with golden charms. And his horns burnished with sandalwood oil so they gleamed like varnished oak. Strapped to his legs were two huge curved, bone handled knives that would have been swords to most men. Inside his coat were strapped throwing knives and a short hatchet. He toyed with Livretti's Dice in one huge hand. Deena noticed that even his claws had been scrubbed and scraped clean. She snorted and turned from him.

  "I hope you aren't trying to present yourself to the world of men as a gentleman, Captain Blackweather? You won't be fooling me. I know your true nature, I've seen you kill."

  Blackweather gave a small chuckle and showed his fangs.

  "Goodness no, girl. I just like to cut a fine figure in Dashai's gambling dens and brothels. I have a reputation as more than a murderer, my dear. I'm known in the dice halls for my rakish charm and lucky streak."

  Deena looked out at the harbour teeming with life and the tears rose but did not show the captain her face.

  "Well, I hope every penny you make from me brings you a life-defining losing streak."

  A low rumble of laughter erupted from Blackweather.

  "It might well, girl. But I look just as good when I'm losing."

  Deena cast him a waspish glance.

  "Why have you come down here, to gloat?"

  Blackweather cradled his dice and shook his horned head.

  "No, Deena. I've come to tell you that it's time. Our journey together is almost at an end. The auction hall of the Midnight Fair is expecting us, and we need to get you presentable."

  Deena gave a short laugh to disguise her fear.

  "The Midnight Fair? That doesn't exist, Captain, you've caught sunstroke or something. Are to sell me to a faerie court?"

  Blackweather raised a brow and his feral eye glimmered in curiosity.

  "Where do you think a pirate who is the southern sea's foremost provider of forbidden magical artefacts sells his wares? In the market in the main square? Of course the Midnight Fair exists, it has outlets in most major cities from Old Vassonia to Lament. It's where all the real aesthetes and devotees of rare and precious magic go, those with more refined tastes. So we need to get you looking like a top quality product."

  Deena smeared her face with oil from the timbers, leaving a greasy stain on her cheek.

  "Well here's a couple less silver coins for the gambling table for you."

  Blackweather stared at her a long moment with a curious expression on his face that Deena could not decipher. For a moment she thought it looked like admiration. Then he stood and turned, gesturing to his crewmen as he passed and strode up on deck.

  She need not have worried about her appearance. In moments three brawny crewmen arrived to drag her kicking from her cage. They set down a basin of cold water, some soap and a thick hand brush. Two held her down whilst the other scrubbed her skin as if he were sanding down a deck. By the time he was finished her pale skin was bright pink and raw, with droplets of blood on her arms and legs. At first Deena struggled and spat, but soon she just closed her eyes and tried to distance herself from the pain. Next they brought out a bone comb and began to comb the knots from her greasy red hair. Deena winced as they tugged hard, pulling out clumps of hair in the tricky areas. She fought back tears of humiliation and pain as they dropped her on the deck. She curled up in a ball and waited for the inevitable beating. But they threw a plain white cotton gown on her.

  Sandman leaned down low and spoke to her.

  "I'm sorry, lass, I am, but you can't cheat the bank .We trade in magic and it's the blackest of markets. We have sent word to several of the prominent buyers on the coast, and they are not the sort of people that you mess with, you understand? Don’t give them cause to hurt you."

  Deena slanted her blue eyes up at sandman.

  "You think I'm going to make myself more attractive to those pigs, Sea-Dog? I'll take whatever value I can from them, even if it's from my own blood."

  Sandman looked own at her and once again his harsh wrinkled demeanour softened for a moment. Deena saw the man as a true product of a hard life at sea, and wondered if he could have been a kinder man in another life.

  "Life is such a war for you, isn't it little one? Don't you ever get tired of the fight?"

  Deena's blue eyes flashed up at him.

  "Yes, it is a war. And I'll fight it by whatever means necessary. The world is filled with leering predators that f
eed of body, soul and heart. Some are monsters on the outside, some on the inside, and some are both, like your demon captain."

  Sandman gestured for the crewmen to lighten their grip a little and Deena breathed easier again. She glanced across at the white robe they had given her and wondered if she could strangle either of the men holding her down. She doubted that she had the strength, but she relished the image. Sandman sighed and spoke to her as if she were his own daughter.

  "But you are just a young girl, and a small one at that. You should not try to confront the violence and cruelty of the world head on. That is not the way that girls have survived. You must be demure, and quiet, know your place in the scheme of things and use subtlety and guile to carve out a small niche of peace for yourself. That is a woman's way."

  Deena fixed his gaze, her hair falling down over her forehead, and she tried to sit up.

  "It wouldn't be my way! If I had strength, you stinking old bastard, I would cleave through every monstrous heart in this world with such rage that those hearts would burst into flame as I passed."

  Sandman stared at her for a long moment, his eyes softening and filling with something akin to regret.

  "You, my lass, would have made a fine corsair. I know I'd be happy to have you on any crew. But you're cursed with magic, girl, and that makes you way more valuable in the marketplace. We've scouted ahead, and the rumours coming back are that this rare blessing of yours, it's valuable. There are those out there on all sides who wish to possess it, or destroy it. You are such a little thing, but worth a lot. "

  Deena could struggle no more and let her body go limp in the arms of her captors. She took a deep breath to calm her heart and spoke to Sandman in an even tone.

  "I'm not worth what you will pay, in the end."

  Sandman continued to look at her, and then he nodded and got to his feet. Leaving Deena to be thrown back into her cage whilst the landing party was arranged.

  Within an hour there was a caravan of camels laden with the artefacts from the hold of the Apocalypse. Being led through the streets of Dashai by an armed guard of Blackweather's crewmen. Cyrus Blackweather was at the front, walking tall and proud, as no beast was big enough to carry him. He looked around him at the teeming city, seeming to enjoy the attention of the public that stared at him.