A Prayer of Dusk and Fury

by D Elias Jenkins

  Wandering around the library, Alfred realized that despite it almost costing him his life to get here, and most of his journey being nothing short of terrifying, he never wanted to leave.

  He felt at home and at peace in that moment, taking in the dry scent of old pages. He passed by an antechamber that contained a scriptorium. Open books lay on many unoccupied small desks, in the midst of being copied by the monks for posterity and distribution. Clearly the diligent monks were determined that ancient knowledge and books of magic were never lost to the world. Master Phillip had once told him that the king's Witchfinders had burned many books in the early days of the purge. Books considered a powerful threat to their version of the world. Alfred marvelled at the penmanship and the illuminations in some of the open books.

  For a moment he saw a trace of his own future. As an old man who had spent decades here in this sorcerous lit library. Dedicated to the preservation of ancient beautiful books. What could be a better way to spend a life, Alfred wondered? Then sadness dawned in his heart. Because he could see that life ahead in such pristine beauty, and he knew that it was not the path he was destined to follow.

  Master Phillip, Carleon, Ruven, Artio, his mother, father, brothers, Damon Astara, had all died because Alfred was born with a sorcerous blessing that was a terrible omen to King Oligan and the Sorrow that had infected the world. A blessing he did not want or choose, that he could not purge himself of, or hide any longer. According to every wise person around him, Alfred's future was one of blood and war. He was to sacrifice his humanity so that others may find peace. He had come to a sort of uneasy peace with it. Yes, he always thought he was the wrong man for the job. That some kind of cosmic mistake had been made. Choosing a frail and cowardly acolyte over the strong of this world. Now he realized it did not matter if he was the wrong man for the task.

  He was the man whom Lord Angall had chosen, and he would do his duty to the Lord for the sake of all those born with the Magus Heart.

  Alfred thought he heard a voice as he wandered up and down the aisles of the giant library. A low whisper calling to him. He stopped amongst the old tomes and listened.

  Sorrowhammer.

  Alfred spun around but no one was there. Just dust and vellum and the low glow of the strange grubs in their lanterns. He heard a voice again, just a rustle of pages.

  Alfred felt the burning behind his breastbone and when he opened his mouth the soft little light of his blessing blew out and hovered in the air before him. He watched it bob up and down, and then it moved down the aisle, illuminating the books as it went. Before Alfred had a chance to think, it turned a corner and was gone. He chased after it, following around the maze of shelves and books. It was leading him somewhere, like it had a life of its own. It spun around another corner and he lost it. Alfred turned several corners but there was no trace of glowing ember. He began to panic, afraid that he had lost his blessing and wondering how to explain that to the abbot. Then he rounded a shelf and found it hovering at the end of a stone passageway with a door at its end. Alfred followed it and thought he heard the whispering voice again.

  His blessing dissipated and vanished. Then Alfred realized that there was still a light source shining on his cheek. He turned and saw that there was a viewing grille in the heavy door. He peered inside and saw something he recognized.

  A small vaulted room like a shrine. A marble pedestal surrounded by a sphere of golden light. An open book sat on the pedestal. Although it made little sense to him, Alfred knew, beyond any doubt, that it was the book that was calling to him. It was the book that had drawn the blessing from inside him towards itself. This was the same book Alfred had seen in his vision during supper. What had Old Gumm said to him? Like attracts like. As if all motes of holy light are part of a greater whole. Alfred could feel a power emanating from the book, like something that was alive and filled with sorcery.

  He wondered if this book was the cause of him first manifesting the blessing in Old Vassonia. Had it even then been trying to reconnect with something it recognized? Alfred’s eyes began to shine like golden coins as the sorcery intensified within him. He peered through the grille and saw a small plaque on the pedestal, engraved with writing. It was not Vassonian, nor any writing he recognized. As he gazed on it his eyes started to blur. Alfred rubbed them and blinked. When he looked again, the writing was changing. Or rather it felt like his mind was changing. The writing was no longer a series of archaic lines and curves. He understood it and could read it, like his mother tongue. The plaque began to make sense.

  The Prayerbook of Angall, Lord of Illumination.

  Alfred stepped back, reeling. He shook his head and ran back down the passageway and into the library. He did not stop until he found himself in a quiet scriptorium, breathing hard. The windows were open, and he leaned on the ledge and took in gulps of cold night air. The stars shone bright above and Alfred stood there, his heart thumping as he looked up at the night sky. He recalled Malkolm Bluheart telling him that a side effect of his particular blessing could sometimes be the ability to understand lost languages. But Alfred never expected one of those languages to be Old Angallan, the language of the gods and their angels! If Alfred understood correctly, that book was not just written in Angallic script. It had belonged to Angall himself. And it had called to him.

  Alfred peered up at the stars, breathing hard, fighting panic. He whispered up to the twinkling lights. He thought of all the nights he had lay in bed and spoken to his god, negotiating a life of luxury and riches with him.

  “So you finally spoke back.”

  A deep voice rumbled behind him.

  "That book tell you anything interesting?”

  Alfred turned to stand staring into the face of Brother Kobold. His grizzled face and leather eyepatch. Alfred offered him a nervous smile and tried to organize his tumultuous thoughts.

  “Brother Kobold. I was just getting some air. For a bookworm, a library can be an exciting place. Some very rare copies here.”

  Kobold stepped into the scriptorium and peered around, checking if anyone else was present. An instinctive shiver of fear ran across Alfred’s skin.

  “You can read it can’t you? The old Angallic script.”

  Alfred noticed that his clerical garb was gone and in its place boiled leather over dyed wool, and a rusted chainmail vest.

  Alfred took a step back.

  "Brother. Your...your clothes…you are dressed for war."

  Kobold tapped a finger on his chainmail.

  “It really was an accident you know? Me finding my way here. I was on my way north. Heard rumours of a girl born with the Magus Heart, could control the very birds in the sky. A Magus like that would have made a fine meal for the Green King. But providence brought me here. With a broken leg and fever. I almost died. I’m no ossomancer like Merrick Clay, so I had to let it heal the old way.”

  Alfred took another step back and shielded himself behind a table. His eyes flicked to the only exit. Kobold saw it too and stepped in front.

  “Didn’t know where I was at first. Like most people, I thought this place was a ruin. Abandoned for centuries. I mean, who in their right mind would live next to the Torrent? Clever thing, to hide themselves in the Bleaks, with all this latent sorcery blowing about. Oligan’s seers were blind here.”

  Alfred scanned the room for any kind of weapon, but there were only books. Kobold brushed back his cloak and a cruel black mace hung from his belt. A cold realization hit Alfred.

  “You’re a Witchfinder.”

  Kobold nodded. There was madness in his one good eye.

  “Can you imagine it, Alfred? These foolish monks spend all this time concealing themselves from us out here, only to bring a Witchfinder into their home willingly. The irony of it. It’s kindness that killed them in the end. And they gathered all the remaining Magus Hearts into one place.”

  Alfred raised his hands in supplication. He kept glancing at the spiked mace.

  “But you’ve seen
these people, lived with them. You say you were hurt they nursed you back to health. They saved you. You can see that they are only seeking refuge here from those that would do them harm. Just trying to survive in a world that would kill them for being born different. Why, Kobold? Why would you do them harm?”

  Kobold shrugged and drew the mace. Alfred flinched. He backed up until his heels hit the wall.

  “Because the Green King only eats one thing. And you selfishly keep it locked away inside you. Lesser beings who have no business with it. Sorcery is the preserve of the Sorrow. They are only taking back what it theirs.”

  Alfred shook his head. He considered shouting for help but feared it would escalate his danger too quickly. His mind was racing, trying to reason with the insanity he saw in Kobold’s uncovered eye.

  “But the Witchfinders have the Magus Heart inside them too. You’re like us, not them. Once your Green King has killed and eaten every one of us, and there are no more morsels left, who do you think he will turn to? When he starves? Do you think a creature like that will reward you for your years of loyalty?”

  Kobold stepped closer, backing Alfred into a corner next to the open window.

  “He won’t forget what we helped him do. He will share his glory with us.”

  “He will tear you open and eat you alive.”

  Kobold scratched his straggly red beard and gave Alfred a sympathetic smile.

  “Not before you.”

  Alfred gestured to the mace, his hands splayed.

  “Wait, wait, Kobold this is madness. What am I to you?”

  Kobold weighed the mace in his hand and then balanced it across his shoulder. He was clearly enjoying Alfred’s fear.

  “We had heard rumours that people were being born with Angall’s Whisper. Hunting down anyone manifesting it was to become our top priority. So when I saw you at supper, heard about your little light, I knew my misfortune had all been for a purpose. I will be honoured amongst my brothers when I return to Monolith. When I bring them your Magus Heart, saturated with all that power.”

  Without warning Kobold swung the mace down. It crashed into the table that shielded Alfred, scattering books and shattering lanterns. Alfred pressed his back against the wall. He knew that he could not beat this man in a fair fight, but he balled his fists and prepared to give it his best.

  Kobold glanced down the passageway where the shrine stood behind its locked door.

  “I hope that prayerbook of your god gave you some comforting final words to whisper while you die. Before I go, I’ll find a way in there to burn it. And usher in an age of ashes.”

  Alfred scanned around the library for an escape. The only way out was an arched window that led out into the void and a three hundred foot drop. Kobold followed his gaze and smiled as the breeze ruffled the pages of books left open on the desk beneath the window.

  "I'll allow you that, boy. It'll save me the mess."

  Alfred stared at the weapon and his guts turned to water. He remembered the terrible injuries inflicted upon his friends by the wendigo's hammers. He was trapped. He could not beat Kobold one on one, so he had to make him think he was already defeated. He saw something next to the window ledge that might give him a fighting chance. He stepped up onto the ledge. He closed his eyes, breathed deep and felt the wind on his face. When he opened them, he looked out over the Bleaks far below, lit by the moon to a silver-grey. The spiked mace rattled behind him. Alfred's fear subsided as he gazed out across the plain below. A tiny orange glow flickered on the horizon. He wondered what foolhardy travellers were out in the Bleaks, huddled around their tiny campfire. Alfred remembered the words of his late master Phillip as he stood at window's edge.

  Angall is the distant flicker of a campfire in the cold desert night. He is the candle in the darkest cave. He is the first ray of sunlight that awakens you after a sleep filled with nightmares. There is nowhere he is more seen than the darkness of the wild.

  The deep voice of Kobold boomed behind Alfred and he turned his head.

  "Gather yourself quickly, boy, it's unseemly for a man of faith to show doubt. Who knows, perhaps Angall will bear you up on wings of angels."

  Alfred looked to the pottery oil lamp on the windowsill. It was unlit but filled high with whale oil, the hemp wick twisted and dry. Alfred took a deep breath and forced the fingernails of his hand to release their grip on the window frame. Kobold spoke behind him.

  "That's it, good lad. Into Angall's arms you go."

  Alfred stared at the wick of the lamp and took a deep breath. He focused his mind on gathering the last dregs of his faith.

  He is the candle in the darkest cave.

  Alfred let the warmth gather in his breast, and then released the tiny mote of Angall's Whisper from his mouth. The wind seemed to catch it and it blew across to the wick, lighting the oil lamp with a gentle whoosh. Alfred let go of the window and grabbed the oil lamp. He twisted his torso and threw it at Kobold with all he had. The pottery shattered against the big man's shoulder and his cloak went up in flames. Kobold reeled back in shock, crying out as the fire singed his beard. He slapped at the flames with his gauntlet, before ripping the cloak over his head and throwing it to the floor.

  Alfred jumped down from the table and made a bolt past him for the door. Just as he got close the fist thudded into his stomach and he doubled over coughing on the floor.

  Alfred fought for breath and managed to get on all fours before Kobold sent a boot into his guts. This time Alfred did not attempt to get up. He lay there fighting for air as Kobold stood above him, gripping his mace. He winced and tugged some of the singed hair from his beard, the blisters showing up on the skin beneath. He looked down at Alfred with a cruel grin.

  "Alright then little rat. The spikes it is for you."

  Alfred raised his hand to defend himself but Kobold kicked a boot into his chin. Alfred saw stars and rolled back into a bookcase. He closed his eyes and braced himself.

  Then he heard a familiar gruff voice from the door.

  "Now, now, what in all the world is going on here?"

  Alfred opened his eyes and a cleric stooped in the doorway. His robes were raggedy and patched, his hood was up and in his mouth the glowing bowl of a pipe. Rancid smoke billowed into the room.

  It was Old Gumm.

  He held a skin of wine in one hand and his lips were stained ruby. He looked as half-sozzled as always. He seemed confused by this scene unfolding in front of him in the library. Alfred could not find his breath so shook his head and gestured with his hand.

  Get away you fool. Run! He'll kill you. Get help you cantankerous old idiot!

  In a half breath Alfred managed to whisper the word.

  "Run..."

  Old Gumm peered at Alfred on the floor as if he were a fool.

  "Alfred, what are you doing on the floor? Is that burning I smell? This is a library. You’ll send the whole place up."

  Alfred tried to get up but did not have the strength. Kobold sneered at him then turned to Old Gumm, mace in hand.

  "I've just been schooling the boy on the virtues of taking a leap of faith. But I'd appreciate your input, old man. Come in, come in."

  Old Gumm shuffled into the library, peering between Kobold and the stricken acolyte. He noticed his pipe had gone out and then took a glug of wine. He wrapped his robes around him, crawling with lice and reeking of damp.

  "Do you two know how late it is?"

  Kobold nodded in mock friendliness.

  "Indeed I do Gumm. It is the darkest hour. The witching time, when all spirits come out to play."

  Gumm narrowed his eyes, a pale rheumy blue in the candlelight. Alfred wondered if he was half blind, or addled of mind. Gumm waved a shaky finger at Kobold.

  "Brother Kobold, it's late and I'm a little confused. Have you been out riding tonight? You're dressed for the wild. It is unseemly to break protocol in front of a young acolyte. Are you in your cups Alfred, up you get."

  Kobold stepped aside and swung
the heavy oak door to the room shut. He turned the key with a hollow clunk.

  "I'll be honest with you, brother. I don't think I'm the best role model for the lad."

  Alfred had managed to prop himself up on one elbow. He gasped in shallow breaths and looked past Old Gumm to Kobold as he gripped his spiked mace tighter. Alfred tried to point but he fell back on the stone floor with a gasp.

  "Witch...."

  Old Gumm shuffled forward, straining his ears.

  "Which what, son? You seem stricken."

  A smiling Kobold stepped up behind the befuddled old man with the mace raised. Alfred fought for his voice.

  "No...Gumm..."

  The old man's arm sprung back and caught the wrist of Kobold just as the mace was swinging down towards him. A shocked Kobold jerked in the grip and then stared in disbelief at his own hand. Old Gumm never moved, he just peered down at Alfred with a look of understanding.

  "Oh, you mean the Witchfinder?"

  Alfred's swollen jaw dropped as the old man's eyes took on clarity and squinted over his shoulder. He stepped in a way Alfred had only ever seen dancers move. Turning and sweeping his arm so that Kobold flew over a nearby table and came crashing to the floor in a pile of books. Old Gumm chewed his lip, working his stubbled jaw. He spat on the floor and then took a big glug of wine from the skin.

  "I knew there was something off about you, Kobold, with your war stories. Trying too hard. Been keeping an eye on you. Never guessed Witchfinder through. I must have been drunker than I thought."

  Kobold stood in outraged fury. He staggered a moment against a bookcase and then caught his bearings. He looked at Gumm with venom and leaned down to pick up his spiked mace. Gumm just stood there, swaying and grinning, his teeth purple from wine.

  Alfred managed to get himself up on his elbows against the wall. He just stared at the old man in disbelief. Gumm was as drunk as man could be but he suddenly seemed like a different person. His bulk now looked like muscle hidden beneath layers. His taciturn expression now the fearlessness of an old soldier. Kobold gritted his teeth and shook his head.