Alfred felt horribly unprepared for what lay ahead. Invar’s deep voice rumbled next to him.
“We don’t have time for much training. All we need is enough to keep you alive in there. Now come downstairs. We need to get your mind ready.”
Alfred could not stop staring at the churning mass of storm cloud and sorcery.
There was nowhere in the world he less wanted to go.
But it was the place Angall’s Whisper had been leading him all along. Not to refuge and sanctuary within Ironghast monastery. But to almost certain death within a zone even the gods had forbidden entry to. He shivered and drew his cloak around him and then followed Invar down the stone steps into the tower.
An hour later Alfred knelt on a cold stone floor in a tower of the monastery.
He felt battered, exhausted and desperate for sleep. Only the night before, a Witchfinder had tried to murder him in the library. He had felt safe in Ironghast, far from the troubles of the realm. Now he realized that his troubles would follow him to the ends of the world.
So he had better learn to be prepared.
Next to him was an arched stained glass window that towered above him. Pale blue, green and red light fell upon his face. He could hear the savage wind of the Bleaks battering against the thick glass. Within the window was a swirling maelstrom in purple and green. Around it stood knights, angelic beings and priests reading from spellbooks. Below the swirling storm stood a hooded figure, and from his mouth drifted a single mote of golden light. It drifted up towards the central mass and in its centre a doorway had opened.
Alfred did not like looking at the window. It filled him with the same dread as the books in the library. He now knew that old master Phillip’s sympathy at Alfred’s blessing was well justified. He knelt on the cold stone, his knees aching but not daring to move.
Because before him was the last paladin in the realm.
Even kneeling. Invar was a head taller than Alfred. He wore his tattered old robes and his hands rested on his knees. Alfred glanced at the thick muscled forearms, scrolled with faded tattoos. Until the night before, Alfred had thought him just a drunken old monk.
They knelt opposite each other in a tower rarely used. Its sunken floor was a cold empty area of cracked stone. In the distance, somewhere far below them, Alfred could hear monks singing a sombre hymn. They would be going for breakfast soon. Stuffing their faces with black bread and the glowing grubs they farmed from the catacombs beneath the monastery.
Alfred’s stomach rumbled. He longed for a mug of the gritty beer the monks here drank. To take the edge of his growing headache.
They had sat there opposite each other for what felt like days. Invar had told Alfred to clear his mind and let the light of Angall flood in like a warm sunrise.
Alfred was terrible at this. His mind constantly raced with thoughts, anxiety churned within him. Ever present at the back of his mind were the fading ghosts of his nightmares. The mutated horde of Sorrowbeasts that poured down upon him.
Every time Alfred opened his mouth to ask a question, Invar reached out and gave him a quick clip on the ear.
“Questions later. Clear your mind.”
Alfred blinked rapidly as his ear smarted with pain. He took a deep breath and braced himself for another blow.
“But master Invar, I can’t help thinking about what we are facing. The Witchfinders, the forces of the king, the Sorrow itself. It is terror stacked upon terror. How can I keep my mind quiet?”
Invar peered at him from beneath bushy grey brows. He grunted.
“That’s what the Sorrow is, Alfred. It is like it was created to terrify mankind. It’s everything that inhabits our worst nightmares. Fear is a power it holds over us. But to fight it, our first weapon is to look on it having conquered that fear.”
Alfred gave a deep sigh and tried to clear his mind again.
“I don’t think I have ever looked at anything without fear before. It’s the fire that has kept me running. Kept me alive so far. I feel a very long way from being a knight of any kind. Far from what you are.”
Invar gave a cynical smile.
“Me? What I am is drunk old bastard hiding in a tower. But I’ll face the Sorrow again before the end, one last time.”
Alfred looked at the old paladin. He was big and broad shouldered. The layers of robes he had worn when Alfred first arrived at Ironghast had made him seem fat. But in the simple tunic and hood he now wore it became obvious he was built like a bear. But he wasn’t shambling anymore, like he had when he was soaked in wine. When he walked there was a primal grace to the gait. During their long conversation through the night since meeting the Manticore, Invar rarely mentioned his past. Other than to say he had journeyed from the sanctuary of Ironghast many times over forty years and roamed the world, Alfred knew very little details of his long secret war against the Sorrow.
The cowardly part of him did not want to know, because it may offer an insight into his own grim future. The one thing he could never imagine the old man being was a coward.
“I saw how you charged at those wendigo in the Bleaks. They were nothing to you. You were fearless.”
Ivar raised a brow and gave a short laugh.
“Hah. My fire is almost extinguished, but I suppose a little still burned that day. Though what fuel it used I cannot say. My soul is mere kindling these days.”
Alfred knelt in front of him. His eyes scanned the intricate coloured panels of the window. The real Torrent was not far, only a few miles at the end of the long valley behind the monastery. Alfred didn’t want to get any closer to it.
“I want to have courage. But I am still afraid of so many things.”
Invar took a deep breath. His bloodshot blue eyes burned into Alfred. Kneeling opposite each other like this, Alfred found it hard to find the confidence to meet Invar’s eye.
The old paladin nodded.
“Yet you only sit here because you showed courage. Once to protect your dying master. Once to protect a helpless animal. And the third time to protect your faith, against a monster few men could face. No one can teach you that. It is in you.
Alfred glanced up.
“Can we really defeat the Green King? Even if I am trained?”
Invar tapped his chest, and then gestured to the depiction of the Torrent wrought in the window. Finally he tapped the sheathed sword on the flagstones at his side.
“Heart, sorcery, and steel. That’s what will defeat the Sorrow. I can’t teach you heart. The light inside you is your own to master. But I can teach you steel.”
Alfred thought of the night Invar had dispatched the raiding party of wendigo. His sword seemed to almost scrape the ground as he rode into them.
“I don’t know if I could even lift that sword you carried.”
Invar got to his feet with a grunt and walked to the corner of the room. From a rack he picked up two wooden practise swords. They were dark lacquered hardwood and Alfred had little doubt that one of them could be used to beat a man to death. Invar weighed one in his hand.
“We don’t start with that. We start with this.”
Then he threw it to Alfred, who caught it in both hands just before it hit his face.
Warily, Alfred got to his feet.
He weighed the practise longsword in his hand, spinning it around and thrusting the rounded tip into the air. Invar stood at the edge of the circular floor, shaking his head. Alfred stopped his inexperienced swordplay and turned to his teacher.
“And the light? When you defeated the wendigo, it was like you were aflame. And when the Kraven attacked my horse. I don’t know how I did it, I was just scared of being eaten. But the blade ignited.”
Invar deftly tested the sword. He casually stepped into the circle and Alfred felt goosebumps prickle his skin. Invar adopted an easy stance, like a lion taking a morning stretch.
“The light and steel works together, like a dance. But you need the bladecraft first before you even think about using your blessing.�
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Alfred raised a brow.
“A dance?”
Alfred stepped forward and Invar mirrored his movement perfectly, staying just out of range.
“Attack.”
“What?”
“With your sword. Swing it. Throw it if you like. But attack.”
Alfred took a deep breath and gathered his courage. He swung the wooden sword at Invar. The old man dodged the attack like it had swung through treacle. Alfred lost his balance a little but regained it and drove in for a thrust. Invar spoke as he raised his sword.
“You move in harmony with the thing you are fighting. As his feet moves, so do yours. As he strikes you defend…”
The wooden blades struck and the thwack echoed in the tower.
“And counterattack.”
Before Alfred could process what was happening, he was disarmed. His sword flew across the room and he felt the air forced from his lungs as the round tip of the practise blade butted him in the solar plexus.
Alfred hunched up and then fell backwards onto the cold stone.
It took him a few moments to catch his breath. The pain was spreading around his sides and back. He shut his eyes tight and tried to breathe through it. Finally he spoke up in a grimacing whisper.
“Is it all going to be like this? Is pain going to be a common theme during this training?”
Invar offered a big hand and Alfred shakily accepted the help.
“Almost exclusively. Now on your feet.”
Invar stood with feet shoulder width apart, transferring his considerable bulk gracefully from one foot to another. He seemed to glide around the floor, circling Alfred.
“Everything flows up from the ground. From your feet. If your aren’t standing strong, it doesn’t matter what you do with your arm.”
Alfred observed Invar and slowly adopted a similar stance. He bounced on his knees and raised his sword into a guard mimicking the old man. Invar pivoted his hips and the wooden blade glided through the air.
“You need good structure, stability, balance. The power of a strike flows up from the earth. Through your legs, the twist of your hips, your shoulders, your arm. And finally out through the blade. If you start with bad stance and poor footwork, nothing else can follow.”
Alfred was already feeling his shoulder muscles begin to burn from holding the sword in position.
“My brothers were blacksmiths. They had arms like knotted wood. Mine were always like knotted string. I always thought it was strong arm that made a knight swing hard?”
Invar lowered his sword and stood before him.
“Stand on one leg.”
Alfred gave a puzzled look but reluctantly did as his mentor instructed. He wobbled for a moment and then steadied himself.
“Now try to swing your sword. Here at my arm.”
Alfred batted the wooden blade ineffectually off Invar’s shoulder. He wavered on his one leg and tottered off balance.
“Does standing like a crane make your arm weaker?”
Alfred put his other foot down and shook his head.
“No.”
“No. because that’s not where the power comes from.
Invar raised his sword again and gestured for Alfred to do the same. Alfred raised his weapon in guard.
“You want your structure to be strong, your defence impenetrable. Your balance and footwork perfect.”
Invar moved forward and trapped Alfred’s blade under his own arm, locking it tight. With a swift kick to the shin he knocked Alfred’s leg away, breaking his balance.
“But you want to lay siege to your enemy’s castle. Break his structure, disrupt his supplies, and disable his defences.”
Invar twisted and in a fluid motion threw Alfred over his shoulder. Alfred landed heavily on his back and the air was knocked from him again.
“Until the castle crumbles.”
Alfred lay there for a long moment until his breath came back. He knew there would be bruises in the morning. After a painful cough he spoke up to his mentor.
“It seems less fair than I expected. I thought all knights would fight like noblemen.”
Invar gave a short laugh.
“Hah, balls to that, Alfred. You know what doesn’t look noble and dignified? Lying in a puddle of your own blood trying to hold your guts in with one hand and begging for water.”
Alfred conceded and raised his hand. Invar pulled him to his feet and handed him the wooden sword. Alfred took it reluctantly. He knew that this was going to be a long day of pain. Invar rolled out his shoulders and took a few practise swings at the air.
“When I was your age I saw the last stand of the Manticores, Alfred. I’m not proud of my part. But they didn’t go easy into death. I watched things like that beast in our vaults eat men alive as they feebly tried to push them away. And the Manticores are nothing compared to the full might of the Sorrow. You fight by any means. You bite, you claw, and you stomp on their skulls. Show no quarter, for you will be shown none. This enemy is a plague, and we must eradicate it even if it means giving up the last shred of our honour. Once you are inside the Torrent, you will be cut off from any help. You must fight for your survival with everything you have. With a burning hatred for the living plague that is the Sorrow.”
Alfred had imagined the paladins being noble knights in gleaming armour, helping the weak and smiting demons and undead. Now he realized that to fight the worst things in the world every day made you into something dark too.
A soldier that would not be welcome in polite society, that good people would recoil from almost as they did from monsters.
13
The Karkaren and the Witchfinder faced each other. Ready to do battle.
Then with a smile the Witchfinder crouched down, closing his eyes and whispering under his breath. His fingers brushed the grey hounds at his feet. They winced for a few moments as if in pain, then with a tearing of flesh the hounds convulsed.
To Deena's shock and horror, they tore out of their skin and grew in size before her eyes. Blood spattered upon the sand at their feet as they grew out of their coverings. A hideous stench permeated the air. What had moments before been hunting hounds were now slavering Grimm. Skinless and monstrous, their eyes red. At a word of command from their master, they leapt forward and pounced at Blackweather's throat.
The crowd panicked and scattered in all directions. They were all here to buy the most bizarre and rare magic they could afford. But none of them were prepared for this type of sorcery. This dark magic was forbidden even amongst the forbidden.
A few drew their swords in defence, but their rivals at the Midnight Fair took this as a threat and drew their own. Within moments, skirmishes had broken out amongst the masses. Old grudges were being settled. Knives went into backs in the melee and every dark deed at the fair came to light at once.
It was chaos.
Even a being as experienced as Blackweather seemed taken aback by this dark magic. The first Grimm's jaws were clamped on his chest before he could swing a blade. The other Grimm bit down on Blackweather's wrist and twisted this way and that. Trying to wrench the weapon from his hand.
Deena screamed and ran forward, but she was jostled to and fro by the panicking crowd. Before she knew it she was knocked to the ground and was being trampled. Deena rolled into a ball and covered her face as boots stomped around her, smashing into her in the chaos. She crawled to the overhang of the wooden stage and ducked underneath it. As legs scurried past and blades swung low.
She peered out and Blackweather was on his back, with one Grimm pinning him down and snapping at his throat and the other stretching his arm out and puncturing flesh as it tugged its feral head side to side. Both of the Captain's long knives were out of reach in the shifting sands of the arena. Blackweather snarled and spat, punching at the Grimm and trying to pull them off his frame. But they were relentless in their attack. Merrick Clay stood at the edge of the stage, clapping like a gleeful madman and gesturing to his silent hatchetmen.
Deena could not watch this any longer. She tried to crawl out towards the Captain's knife, which lay only a few metres from her, half buried in the sand. Every time she ventured out past her shelter, another fleeing fair-goer butted into her and sent her flying. She covered up and retreated until she could see a gap.
She heard Blackweather roar.
He wrenched his hand free of the Grimm's jaws and stood. The other hound still clung to his chest and bit at his face. His eyes wild with the pain, Blackweather grabbed the creature by the scruff of its neck. And tore the Grimm's jaws from his flesh. In one violent motion, he grabbed its back legs and with his eyes fixed on Merrick Clay, rent the beast in half.
A foul tangle of innards spilled out, grey and almost mechanical. Like nothing a natural creature would grow. The other Grimm leapt up and bit down upon Blackweather's leg and he grimaced in pain. But he reached down and clamped both hands on the creature's jaws. With a roar he pulled them open, cracking the creature's skull in half and throwing it at Merrick Clay's feet.
The Witchfinder was impassive, staring down in disdain at his dead pets.
Blackweather gazed at the corpses with disgust. He was panting and blood dripped from his hand and calf. He spoke with low revulsion.
"The only time I saw creature with insides like that, it came from a thousand year old egg. From the time when the Sorrow walked the world. Nearly put my ship under the sea, if it wasn’t for that girl you want so bad. I think we know where your allegiances really lie now, don’t we Witchfinder? We know who’s really pulling the strings.”
Merrick Clay gave an apologetic shrug and gestured for his hulking hatchetmen to advance. Blackweather glanced at the henchmen of the Witchfinder, flexing their muscles and preparing to fight.
Royal hatchetmen were chosen as children from the biggest, most naturally violent in the group. They were raised within the Witchfinders temple and fed on a diet of roast beef and brutality. Their souls were dull hard rock, reflecting nothing but a grim enjoyment of the fight. They were what they were, and they lived or died by it.
A Prayer of Dusk and Fury Page 14