A Prayer of Dusk and Fury

by D Elias Jenkins

  He stared into the darkness beyond. And with primal fear he was aware of a presence watching him in the dark, something still and deadly.

  The breathing continued for a few moments and then a voice echoed out from between the bars. It was deep and sonorous, cultured but with a rasp of savagery.

  "And here arrives the curse of companionship once more. Have you come to read me another of your tedious holy books, old man?"

  Invar drew back the hood of his cloak and stood shoulders squared before the bars with his jaw set tight. Alfred cowered by his back, not daring to breathe. Invar shook his head.

  "No more stories for you for a while. Not since you bled those poor boys that brought you food. It's basic rations for you now. Curse you for harming anyone."

  A derisory laugh rolled through the bars. The voice was so deep Alfred could feel it rattle his bones, but it was not unpleasant. On the contrary, it was like a deep woodwind instrument, seductive and appealing. It almost entranced him. Then he remembered Invar's words and shook his head clear. The voice sang through the bars.

  "Food? Food , it says. You dull aesthetics might be able to sustain yourselves on snails and moss. But I'm bred to enjoy something that can still squeal a little when it's cornered."

  Invar chewed his moustache for a long moment and worked his jaw. He seemed to be having some kind of inner struggle. Finally his shoulders sagged and he turned from the bars. Taking out his hip flask and slugging back some brandy.

  "I might be able to get you a goat leg, next time I'm out in the Bleaks. But it'll be butchered in the kitchen upstairs, you won't be toying with or torturing any living thing."

  The singsong laughter came again.

  "But old man, I've been toying with and torturing you for decades. Isn't it tragic, that you're so desperate for company and connection with another living soul that you spend most nights here outside my bars, reading to me like a nanny?"

  Invar turned and raised his hipflask . Alfred stood stock still in the foul smelling cavern. Unable to take his eyes from the shadows through the bars. At times he thought he could detect movement. And then he thought it was just the light from the flickering torch.

  "There's only one living soul here tonight, monster, I don't know what they call whatever lives in your heart."

  A low snuffling in the gloom, something large tasting the air.

  "No, you're lying, Ironbound. There are two! And who does this fluttering little heart belong to? Are you sure you haven't treated me to a surprise supper, you romantic old fool?"

  Invar took a bitter swig and shook his head at the bars.

  "It's not your supper, monster, it's your salvation."

  A sudden exhalation of air from massive lungs. Alfred could feel the warm gust through the bars.

  "Him? He's barely a meal and he's certainly not a champion."

  A leathery sound and then some scuffling from within the cell. As something huge moved a little closer. The low voice sang again.

  "He does reek of sorcery though, and he has the Magus within him. That'd be a succulent little delicacy. It's right above the liver, as good raw as it is cooked, and it glows like those little grub-lanterns. They would be a treat at my father's tables."

  Invar rattled the bars with his metal hip flask. To regain the occupant's attention away from Alfred.

  "Your father is long gone as are all your kind. You're the last one, but that can soon be rectified if you carry on this way."

  A long sigh and then the voice moved farther away into the cell. In mocking tones of resignation he spoke.

  "I love having you here as my keeper and moral guide, old man. You are looking old tonight, Invar. You have the stench of death about you...but not yours I think. You've killed tonight, haven't you? I bet that quickened the blood, reminded you of the old days?"

  Invar drew back his robes and adjusted a sword in a leather scabbard on his thigh.

  "My blood's still up, one more life tonight wouldn't make a difference, so keep goading me, monster."

  "Oh but this life would, wouldn't it? Because the time for war is getting close now, and you know you might need me to handle a greater enemy. This must send you into a frenzy of self-flagellation every night to appease your conscience?"

  Invar sagged and sat down on the bench, glugging from his flask. He sighed deep and seemed defeated and lost.

  "My conscience broke under the weight of all I've done years ago."

  Invar fell into silence and melancholy, his big shoulders rising in a sigh. Alfred just stood there, looking from the prison bars to the old man. He felt exposed and alone. But he supposed he had better start to become more assertive if he was to be a soldier in the war against the Sorrow. He turned to the bars and cleared his throat.

  "My name is Alfred of Durn. Blessed of Angall's Whisper, and I seek my part in the coming war against the Sorrow. Invar tells me that you also wish to do yours, prisoner?"

  Invar glanced up and in a quiet voice he said.

  "Don't step too near the bars, Alfred. And don't bother talking with him, it's like bartering with a damned snake."

  A movement in the cell again and the deep voice crept closer.

  "Do I want to see good King Oligan's face run from his skull? Well, I wouldn't say no."

  Alfred took a deep breath, trying not to gag at the reek of rotten meat.

  "I do not know your crimes, sir, or why Invar judges you so. Perhaps it is deserved. But as I understand it, this monastery is full of the last example of many things. Each fighting for a foothold in this world and their right to exist. Yes, I have the magus within me, and since you're here I'm guessing that you do too. Which means that the king would hunt you, and the Sorrow devour you like it does everything of sorcerous blood. We are uh...recruiting...for an army that would stand against this menace. And I am sure if you joined us my Lord Invar Ironbound would offer you a pardon for your wrongdoings, and your freedom."

  Invar coughed out his brandy and stood from the bench.

  "Alfred, put your loose tongue back in your stupid skull. I told you not to engage with him."

  The deep voice mocked from within the cell.

  "Oh but we're building a rapport, old man."

  Alfred heard movement again, saw the shadows shift in the darkness, but dismissed them.

  Must be the shadows from the torch, too big to be a living thing.

  The voice drew closer again.

  "A full pardon, you say? You heard that old man, the little human forgives me for my existence?"

  Alfred took a step back, stammering, almost falling over a chink in the floor.

  "No, I didn't mean to, I mean to say that I wasn't-"

  The voice came closer and Alfred stood transfixed as its owner stepped out of the gloom. Burning amber eyes lit the bars as they approached. Then a huge head shaped between lion and man but covered in iridescent scales. Glimmering like oil on water. It padded up on four paws tipped in talons longer than Alfred's knife. A fiery mane framed the massive skull, and between the thick red fur, long silvery spines bristled. It towered above him behind the bars and looked as elegant and graceful as it did terrifying.

  It sat on its haunches just behind the bars and cocked its massive head, smiling at him.

  "Alfred, is it?"

  Invar stepped forward and half-unsheathed his sword.

  "Alfred I told you not to step too close to the bars and not to start conversing with it. His voice is a lullaby from the pit. Trust me it's been singing to me for years, curse it!"

  Alfred just stood staring slack jawed. He had seen such things illustrated in books. Heard of them in childhood stories when he and his friends would try to scare one another. But there were no such things in the world anymore. The king’s campaign against them was legendary, and he had suffered a terrible blow at their hands. But he had won, King Oligan had won! There were no more left in existence.

  "You're...you're...a Manticore ."

  The creature licked its lips with a lon
g black tongue. Invar stepped behind Alfred and drew him back away from the bars. Alfred could not take his eyes off the terrible curved talons.

  Invar had his arm around Alfred, shielding him, with his sword still half drawn.

  "He is the last Manticore, Alfred. The lost son of their Pridelord. I brought his egg all the way here from the last stand of the Manticore Wars during the purge, forty odd years ago. We were told not to leave a single one alive. But at the time I didn't quite realize why, and I don't think the king did either, though perhaps the Sorrow did."

  The Manticore regarded Alfred with its mocking, burning eyes. And wrapped one taloned paw around the bars. The scaled skin began to smoke, as if some charm within the metal was like fire to the beast. The Manticore did not flinch, it just sat there gazing at him as its skin singed.

  "How like mankind, hack it apart to see how it might work, then wonder where the most important piece went."

  Invar stood behind Alfred and kept his arm across the boy's chest. He held him close and spoke, never taking his eyes from the beast.

  "They are part of nature but also born of sorcery. We did not know that all Manticores shared a single soul. With each one we slaughtered in the name of the king, the dying one's strength and memories were absorbed by the remainder of his kin. The fewer they are, the stronger they are. This one has never lived amongst his kind, he was but a blackened egg when I took him. But he remembers his father, his brothers, his history and the wars as if he were there, it all comes to him in troubled dreams. They were dangerous, capricious creatures, Alfred, not to be trusted or bargained with. Yet I am still ashamed that I and my order were involved in their downfall. Even we, the Knights of the Blaze, were as fooled by the puppet king Oligan and his Sorrow masters, as much as anyone else was. We were not immune."

  The Manticore let go of the bars and his skin was charred, but he showed no hint of pain. He licked the palm with his black tongue and Alfred swore he could see the scales repairing before his eyes. Then the monster looked up and smiled, the dagger fangs gleaming in the firelight. He gave Alfred his sonorous voice once again.

  "But the King made a terrible mistake you see, young blessed. I did not just receive my ancestor's memories and essence as each one was slaughtered. I received their strength, their hatred, bitterness and desire for revenge. But I also received their venom."

  Invar spoke over Alfred's shoulder.

  "His father's venom killed my master in the purge. A more virulent poison I have never seen."

  The Manticore paced the length of his cell, and a metal trap around its tail dragged like a cannonball.

  "Fifty years ago a mere infant of my kind grazed your king with its barbs, and the monarch's regal little face dripped from his skin. My venom is potent beyond all measuring, the concentrate of an entire species, distilled with hate and with bloodlust. In trying to kill us, he left one behind with the poison of all. I will use that if I can."

  Invar took a step closer to the bars.

  “We have precious little magic strong enough to defeat the Sorrow this time, Alfred. But in his last letter to me, my old master Ulric Godwine wrote that this creature is very precious to the war. And that it has an important part to play in defeating the Green King. So I have kept it safe, and done my best to keep others safe from it.”

  Alfred looked at the terrifying mythological creature peering through the bars at him. And then he walked forward out of Invar's shielding grasp and up closer to the bars. Invar reached out for him but Alfred strode forward. He looked up at the predator before him, the head bigger than a bull's.

  His blessing kindled within his breast but he did not release it. Instead he let it warm his soul. His future now was under the protection of an old man, the last of a broken order sworn to protect him and others like him. It was with a monster from a children's faerie tale, which still breathed and plotted in the waking world. It was to enter the Torrent and seek out the sleeping messengers of the Gods.

  Alfred turned his back to the bars of the cell.

  He stood there breathing hard, inches from the talons of the Manticore.

  "If we are to all be allies, then there must be trust. If I cannot turn my back on an ally, none of this will work."

  Invar moved forward but Alfred shook his head.

  For the first true time in his life, Alfred gave himself over to the protection of Angall. He had every reason to believe he was about to die. His every instinct of self-preservation told him to run from the cell and back up to library. All he wanted to do was abandon this calling and spend his life illustrating beautiful manuscripts. But he knew that was not to be. So he gave himself up to the will of Angall and he did what all holy men do in times of need.

  He had faith and he prayed aloud.

  "Star in the midnight sky

  Lighthouse in the tempest sea

  Brilliance of idea inhaled

  Glimmer in the new-born eye

  Beckoning campfire in the darkest night

  Hope in the heart of the hunted

  Cleansing fire of the new dawn

  Noble Angall, keep your spark in my heart and soul

  And remind me ever

  That there is a light that never goes out."

  Invar stood there frozen in front of Alfred, his sword drawn. But Alfred knew that there was no way the old man could get to him in time if the beast chose to strike. Alfred saw the claws descend in the corner of his eye. A shiver trickled down his spine as they rested upon his shoulder. Alfred could sense the terrible strength within them. How effortless it would be for the Manticore to lacerate him to ribbons.

  Yet the talons rested on his robes and did not even slice through the first layer of wool.

  Behind Alfred, a low soothing laugh and the deep voice at the back of his head.

  "Oh little Blessed, I think we're going to get along famously.”

  11

  Rough hands grabbed her shoulders. When she looked up, two heavy set men wearing silk hoods were dragging her towards a raised platform. A crowd gathered and bids were being shouted out. A fat man with a bald head and dark paint around his eyes was holding up a book. As hands went into the air, he addressed the crowd.

  "Remember this grimoire should never have survived the burning of the library at Zakkar. It wanted to survive, it had a will of its own, because it knew the secrets it contained had to be preserved. For the collector, for the aficionado of archaic ritual, this is a must have piece. The fire damage does not de-value it, on the contrary it adds character to the narrative of this piece, like a scar does to a man's face!"

  A plethora of hands shot into the air and a murmur of bids spread through the crowd. After a minute or two the charred book went to a tall brown skinned man in a high white velvet hat. He went to collect his prize amidst cries of protest from another group bunched together in the crowd. Deena could feel the rivalries and tension in the air as the guard had warned. She did not recognize the gangs and factions, but she could see a storm brewing.

  Before she knew what was happening, Deena was dragged up on the platform and cast out into the centre. Falling at the fat man jewelled toes.

  She looked up into the sea of leering faces and shame and anger washed over her.

  The fat, silk wrapped auctioneer grabbed Deena by her red hair and pulled her to her feet. She tried not to cry out from the pain and stood there before the crowd. The auctioneer leaned in and whispered.

  "You better just stand still and look appealing you little whore, we're expecting to make a healthy commission out of you. If you start acting up, believe me we have ways to hurt you that you will not be able to tolerate. Do you understand?"

  Deena looked sidelong at him, her jaw clenched tight. He twisted her arm and she gave the smallest nod. The auctioneer turned to the gathered crowd.

  "Our next artefact is one of flesh and blood. A slave girl of no particular pedigree, who would have lived her life obscurity as a servant in some noble house. And yet, she is one of an eve
r shrinking number of people born in the world warped by the power of sorcery. She was born with the Magus Heart above her liver. For authenticity, any one of you is welcome to conduct a physical inspection."

  The auctioneer grabbed Deena by one arm. Hoisted her on her tiptoes, and dug his fingers into her flesh just beneath her ribs. She inhaled with the shock but did not cry out. She promised that she would not scream. The auctioneer nodded and his sweating jowls shook.

  "Yes, yes I can feel it just there. But that will not be enough to satisfy most of you here. We need a little demonstration. This one has a rare blessing indeed, a real collector's item. This blessing has not been seen in the world for over four hundred years! It is one of the rarest, a blessing of the blazing god Angall. It serves no particular purpose that we know of, but what is rumoured, is that this blessing is a portent of great change in the world, of powerful forces at work. This girl could be kept as a novelty item, for the rarity. But...a more potent use of such an unusual blessing would be to remove the Magus from her body and use it as a reagent in a powerful spell. As a reagent, it is so rare that it could in theory activate magicks that have not been seen in the world for many lifetimes."

  Deena began to struggle in his clammy hands but the auctioneer held her tight.

  She opened her eyes and looked out upon the crowds of the midnight fair. The torches around the edge of the arena gave a writhing display of shadow theatre on the stone walls. At least a fifty people were gathered around the platform where she was being displayed. Many of them wore silken scarves that covered their mouths or wide brimmed hats. Many who dabbled in magic or collected forbidden artefacts had otherwise normal professions. Families and reputations. Even amongst likeminded explorers in the unknown, they did not want to expose their secret fascinations. Particularly since most of them were aware of the unsettling presence of the Royal Witchfinder. The thin sinister man stared at her every move, his green eyes filled with expectation. Around him stood three royal bluecoats and another few unnaturally muscular men wearing black leather masks and carrying sharp axes. At the thin man's feet sat two large hounds, moving and glaring at her with hungry eyes.