A Prayer of Dusk and Fury

by D Elias Jenkins

  "Will you live?"

  The Karkaren gave a throaty chuckle and then coughed.

  "I have no idea, Scorchling. If I don't bleed out tonight, then, aye, possibly. I'm lucky that way. It's not easy to kill the last of something. We cling to life with all our claws. "

  Deena knew that if any creature could survive such wounds, it was Blackweather. She could only hope, and pray.

  "We are going north, Cyrus. I don't know how many hundreds of miles. But its north. In the Bleaks. To Ironghast monastery."

  Blackweather grunted and settled himself in the saddle, grimacing every time he moved.

  "And what do we find there, Scorchling?"

  Deena looked ahead down the long lonely pale road that led northwards through the desert.

  "A weapon. Some kind of help to fight against the Sorrow. And others. Like me with the cinder of Angall’s light inside. One of them I keep seeing in my dreams. A boy. I think he sees me too."

  Cyrus grunted.

  “I’d dread to be the boy in your dreams, Scorchling. Poor lad. In your dreams, is he as annoying as you?”

  Deena smiled.

  “I think so, yes.”

  She looked back at him and patted his furry chest.

  "And there may be others like you. The last remaining creatures of magic to stand against the Sorrow. Others of the Old Races with the Magus Heart within. We won’t be alone anymore, Cyrus.”

  Blackweather sighed and nodded.

  "That’s not necessarily a good thing, Scorchling. We come in all sorts of dangerous shapes and sizes."

  They rode on out of Dashai, into the cold windy desert night. Blackweather's arms kept Deena warm as the evening drew on. And her head nodded with exhaustion in the saddle. A sudden thought woke her up a little, and she spoke behind her to the Karkaren.

  "Captain, can I ask you a question?"

  Blackweather grunted.

  "I suppose so."

  Deena squinted out to the twinkling desert stars. She wondered if they would ever reach the end of the road alive.

  "Your magic dice. The bones of Livretti."

  The low voice behind her.

  "Yes?"

  Deena struggled to find the words.

  "You were stood at the back of the crowd, when I was there at the auction. You were rolling them and they spoke to you, they glowed with magic and they gave you a message, didn't they?"

  Blackweather breathed impatiently behind her.

  "Mmmhmm."

  Tiredness took her again, and she almost forgot what she wanted to ask. The rocking gait of the shaggy Japhar was sending her to sleep. With a start her head jerked up and she remembered.

  "The Bones. Did the Bones really tell you to save me? Did your god speak to you, and come to our aid?"

  Blackweather did not answer for a long moment. They rode on along the desert road, the orange lights of Dashai twinkling behind them in the distance. Then he took the strange sorcerous dice from his pocket and stretched his arm forward,. He held them in front of Deena. She had never seen them up close, and they were as eldritch as they were beautiful. As they turned in his hand, bizarre symbols appeared and then faded on each face, never to be seen again. Deena marvelled at a being so in tune with his god.

  The deep voice of Blackweather rumbled in the saddle behind her.

  "I have no idea, Scorchling. I can't read Livrettan runes."

  Blackweather opened his hand and let the dice tumble from him and down on the sand below. Deena reached out to catch them but they were gone, lost in the desert night. Her thoughts swum in her head, trying to make sense of the captain's words. Blackweather rumbled behind her, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

  "No one can."

  14

  Alfred stood at the doors of the shrine room. It was one of many locked doors in Ironghast. But this one contained the rarest most powerful relic of all. He had stood outside this door before Kobold had tried to murder him. As before, Alfred could feel the power emanating from inside.

  He was afraid to enter.

  Invar put a hand on his shoulder and ushered him inside.

  “This is the most sacred book in the entire monastery. And there are many sacred books here.”

  The room was small, hexagonal and built of pale marble. In its centre was a raised dais and a plinth. An open book sat upon the plinth. It was like no book Alfred had ever seen.

  It was a thick tome with a leather and iron cover. The pages were covered in perfectly executed Angallic script. Motes of pure golden magic drifted up from the pages. Alfred could feel the power of it from the doorway.

  The plinth was surrounded by a pale bubble of holy light.

  Alfred realized that he had forgotten to breathe.

  “It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

  Invar knelt down next to Alfred and interlocked his fingers in the sign of holy flame.

  “And the most mysterious. Scholars have spent their entire lives trying to decipher the text. The first pages have been made some sense of. But the rest is written in a dialect so old that probably only Angall himself could read it.”

  Alfred felt an overwhelming urge to step forward and touch the book. But he could sense that the bubble of light surrounding it was there to stop the curious doing exactly that.

  Invar stood up and walked closer. He stared at the open book with a sense of humbleness and awe that Alfred had not seen before. Alfred followed him in and gazed longingly at the ancient pages.

  “It is called the Libram of Ashes. From what we can decipher, it is Angall’s prayerbook.”

  Alfred slowly turned to face his mentor. Invar fixed his gaze.

  “But you already knew that, didn’t’ you?”

  Invar smiled beneath his beard. The golden light of the book was reflected in his eyes.

  “Yes. When I looked through before, I could read the plaque. Not at first, but my eyes changed and it just sort of made sense.”

  Invar nodded.

  “The one who can read this book can perhaps use the spell work within. A collection of blessings written in Angall’s own hand and used in the old war. It is believed that the Torrent itself was formed through one of these prayers. They are a level of magic that can un-knit worlds. Or knit new ones.”

  Alfred reached a hand out to touch the book. Invar’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

  “That protective enchantment that surrounds it. It is worked especially to remove the skin of anyone who attempts to pass through it.”

  Alfred drew his hands slowly back.

  “Oh.”

  They both stood admiring the sheer beauty of the libram. Each mote of light that drifted from the pages and dissipated reminded Alfred of his own blessing. Invar waved his hand past the floating cinders.

  “They say that the holy light of Angall was brought with him in his long pilgrimage across the stars. He collected essence of starlight on his way here, and infused his chosen with it. This book is saturated with it. As is your blood. And mine to a lesser degree.”

  Alfred could not stop staring at the book. His eyes scanned the open pages from outside the aura and he felt that strange tickling in his mind as the symbols began to make sense. Fear stopped him and he tore his eyes away.

  “Do you believe that I can use what is in this book, Invar?”

  Invar stared at the book glowing on its pedestal.

  “All I know is that it’s not of this world. And if you were not fortunate enough to be born with that second heart beneath your ribs, to even stand this close to it would burn your flesh to cinders. It only allows those it wants close to it to approach.”

  Alfred again felt the overwhelming urge to touch the forbidden book.

  Invar took a deep breath and took a step back towards the door.

  “You are a bookworm, Alfred. I knew that seeing this would be special to you.”

  Alfred hesitated before asking his next question.

  “Is that why you brought me here?
”

  Invar glanced to the doors. No one was there.

  “Yes. And no. If you have the ability to read that book, I wonder if one of the prayers in there might serve to help you in the darkness of the Torrent? I mean, if the book created the Torrent, you’d think there might be something in there. Helpful to someone who could understand it, anyway.”

  Alfred felt his heart flutter. He searched his mentor’s eyes.

  “But I would be forbidden from doing so.”

  Invar nodded.

  “Absolutely. No one is supposed to step beyond the threshold of that shield. You would probably need a very particular blessing not to have the skin burned from your flesh by that magical shield to even try. Bluheart and the monks will want you to study the book, obviously, once they find out about your gift. They know that somewhere in there are secrets that can help defeat the Green King. But of course they wouldn’t allow you to take such a valuable thing into the Torrent with you.”

  Alfred slowly turned back to face the Libram on its marble altar. He heard Invar’s rumbling voice over his shoulder.

  Alfred turned his head and saw the huge shadow of Invar in his peripheral vision. He saw the old man stretch out his shoulders and heard him yawn.

  “Well, it’s about time for an old bastard like me to retire to his chambers and get blind drunk then howl at the moon. My bones ache. Perhaps, considering the danger you will be facing in the Torrent, you might want to stay and pray a while, kneel before something so sacred?”

  Alfred turned back to the Libram and gave a distracted nod.

  “I will join you in a moment, Invar.”

  The old paladin gave him a judgemental look.

  “Well don’t be long. Your swordsmanship training begins again after breakfast in the morning. You will need your rest. More bruises tomorrow.”

  He turned and stomped off down the corridor, leaving Alfred alone in the shrine. He stood staring at the Libram.

  Alfred thought of the dangers that lay ahead of him. No matter how much Invar and the monks here believed in him and the validity of his blessing, Alfred knew that he was not prepared. The old fears rose in him, and all he wanted to do was run away.

  He glanced behind him at the open door to the shrine room. He could hear no footsteps or voices.

  So he made a decision.

  Alfred walked slowly up to the pedestal where the Libram rested. Tiny motes of golden light drifted up from the pages. He could feel the raw holy power emanating from it. It was as terrifying as it was beautiful. A relic from the age when gods still walked the world. So what Alfred was about to do was unforgivable.

  He was a young man who more than anything wanted to become a librarian at a great repository and spend his life amongst rare and beautiful books of magic. To desecrate any book was obscene. To desecrate this one was unthinkable.

  Alfred closed his eyes and stepped through the bubble of pale light that protected the shrine. It would have repelled almost everyone else in the world, no matter how pious or devout. But it would not repel one blessed with Angall’s Whisper.

  Alfred stood over the libram, breathing hard. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

  He reached out and lightly ran his fingers across the open pages. A tingle of latent sorcery sent a shiver up his arm. Slowly he turned the heavy pages, one at a time until he reached the forbidden section at the back. The section written in red that screamed out a warning to anyone reading.

  Forbidden. Danger.

  Alfred scanned each page. These were secret prayers. Ones that could only be used by those with Angall’s Whisper who had already communed with an archangel. The warnings were very specific. If anyone else even attempted to speak these prayers they would be burned into dust within a single breath.

  Alfred turned a page and let his eyes scan the Angallic script. As he read, he realized why this section of the book was forbidden. If the power this verse could conjure was true, it could destroy everything for miles and reduce Ironghast monastery to rubble.

  Alfred raised his hand over the page and slowly lowered it. Each inch his fingers got closer, the script began to glow a burning orange, as if from deep fissures in the earth.

  Alfred tried to stop himself reading it, but it was drawing him in, compelling him. He felt his own Magus Heart ignite and his eyes took on a golden hue.

  He heard his voice reciting the first line of the page.

  “A Prayer of Dusk and Fury…”

  Alfred knew that the instant his hand connected to the page the prayer would activate and unimaginable power would be unleashed. He knew it would bring Ironghast down upon his head.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and broke off the connection. The letters on the page began to fade. When the page returned to dormancy, Alfred looked up to the ceiling.

  “Dear lord Angall. I know we haven’t spoken in a while. It’s me again, Alfred. Your favourite. I’m sort of looking for pre-emptive forgiveness for what I’m about to do. I know it might seem like I’ve returned to my old troublesome ways, but er…I really do have a plan.”

  With that Alfred deftly tore the page out of the book.

  He folded it carefully, hid it within his robes, and left the shrine room as casually as he could.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  D. Elias Jenkins lives in Scotland, overlooking the wild North Sea.

  If you enjoyed this book in the Age of Ashes series, others in the series are available.

  Also by D. Elias Jenkins

  A Prayer of Light and Venom

  A Prayer of Freaks and Sinners

  A Prayer of Hope and Bones

  The author can be contacted via Twitter @JenkinsElias or the website

  https://www.lightandvenom.com/

  Copyright 2019 by D. Elias Jenkins

  All rights reserved

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.