A Prayer of Freaks and Sinners

by D Elias Jenkins

  The beautiful stained glass window open before him and the night air spilled in to chill his face. A few stray specks of snow drifted in with it to dance across the room.

  He could see stars twinkling in the night sky and wondered if they sat further away than the gods. He knelt attempting to pray to Angall for courage and luck, and something else, something hitherto unasked for. But for the first time in ages, words failed him.

  Trying his best to slow his thumping heart and quell the tempest that churned in his guts. The reality of what he was going to do at first light hitting him hard.

  Invar Ironbound had trained them all day, given them as much preparation as he could. But no one knew what to expect in there tomorrow. If the gods had sealed it off from the rest of the world, they had done it for good reason. An oubliette, a place of forgetting, and some things best left that way.

  He changed, he could feel it. But parts of the old Alfred remained. Now no old life to go back to. His family killed and home destroyed. His mentor and brother priests murdered. He had a price on his head and a Witchfinder that would never stop hunting him. His only home now a cold ancient monastery and a family of runaways.

  As he closed his eyes an image flashed in his mind. A vision assaulting him from somewhere outside his body. It hit him hard and his eyes rolled up white.

  I am kneeling on the ground amongst a litter of shattered bone.

  I bleed the ground red. She is beside me. Her skin is the only warm thing in the whole night.

  A pool of light surrounds us.

  It is fading.

  On the fringes of that pool, in the darkness, something waits.

  A multitude.

  Hungry and drawn to our leaking life.

  We look to each other.

  We draw our swords.

  Everyone else is dead before us.

  Our fate is last.

  The bones crunch under our feet.

  Alfred took in a sudden breath as the vision left him. A few flakes of snow rested on his forehead and turned to water. He was breathing hard.

  The visions he experienced getting stronger. Closer. He suppressed the rising panic and looked up out the open window into the night.

  "Lord Angall...give me the courage to-"

  A girl's voice interrupted his prayer. Short clipped words.

  "I've seen you before we reached this place. In my dreams. Waking dreams too."

  Alfred took a deep breath but stayed on his knees and did not turn. Terrible etiquette to interrupt someone at prayer, but no one cared much about etiquette tonight. Too much at stake and too much worry about. As if she could see he was being bludgeoned with a vision.

  Alfred felt the strange light ignite within him. The beacon of proximity that the aspirants all seemed to share. He felt his blessing pull his heart towards the greater whole. But he resisted, because beneath that he felt something else all too mundane and human. This girl in his visions had terrified him for as long as he could remember. He had dreaded ever meeting her in the flesh. Now he had, his feelings differed. She crept into his thoughts at the most inopportune times, and he found his imagination drifting during prayers and training. Yet she also irritated the light out of him with her petulant, inflexible zealotry. He couldn't stand her sometimes. That didn't stop him wanting to kiss her. Damn it all I'm a mess, he thought.

  Alfred kept facing the window and smiled. When in doubt, bluff it.

  "Ah well, you're not the first girl to tell me that. There's many a lass in Old Vassonia seeks me out in her head while she sleeps."

  He saw Deena in his peripheral vision stomp into the room and lay a tray on his bedside table. Alfred could smell warm bread and the tang of wine. His stomach rumbled and he realized he was so stressed he had forgotten to eat.

  She's brought me supper. A girl doesn't do that for a boy she doesn't care about.

  The next thing Alfred felt a sharp slap on the back of his head. His eyes widened in shock and it knocked the smile from his face. Deena walked round and stood by the window, hands on hips. Her red fringe fell across one eye. She didn't look amused at all. Gorgeous, but unamused. She seemed determined to never look like a girl should.

  "First of all that's not true. You're the most hopeless boy around women that I've ever met. And I lived with an eighty five year old celibate oracle before coming here. Can't you take any of this seriously? Been chosen by God, for a holy crusade against the Sorrow! It's a divine calling, and you treat it like the abbot of your order told you you're on potato peeling duty for a year. What are you hiding from?”

  He tried not to think of the scrubbed soap smell of her skin, the cinnamon of her hair. The eyes as fierce and blue as crashing waves. Yet his skin prickled at her tone. He stood up and adjusted his robes. He wanted to say something smart and cynical. To put her in her place with his snarky wit. He raised a finger and drew in breath, ready to give her nuggets of wisdom. She stared at him, blue eyes unblinking. Alfred's shoulders sagged and he shook his head. He answered her.

  "I'm not hopeless around women. I'm hopeless around you."

  For a split second her gaze wavered. The ice melted and Alfred saw something else beneath. Fear and doubt? A connection of some kind? In a heartbeat gone and her mouth tightened. She sighed and turned to the tray, tearing off a morsel of bread and chewing it with her mouth open.

  "Well you are going to be around me. Until we succeed or until we die. You need to get used to it. We both do. This is about more than us. We're soldiers now."

  Alfred felt something hot rise in his belly but it wasn't the shared blessing. He stepped across towards her, his hands spread out exasperated.

  "See it's sentences like that one that terrify me about you. The truth is I'm awkward around you because I can't be like you. But I want to be. From my lips that sentence would sound ridiculous. From yours it's just honesty and conviction. Look at me Deena. I'm no Paladin, no Knight of the Blaze, whatever deluded old Invar says. But you are born to do this. There was fire in you before any blessing from the gods touched your lips."

  Deena leaned back against the wall with her arms folded. She cocked her head as she chewed the bread. She looked him up and down, assessing and judging him. Alfred felt both assessed and judged.

  "What?"

  Her brow furrowed as she stared at him. She swallowed her bread then spoke.

  "You're no coward. You just pretend to be."

  Alfred resented this.

  "I can assure you madam, it's my natural instinct to crawl under a rock when danger comes. There's no shortage of rotting carcasses in the bleaks, all of them bold brave animals. The smart ones stay under their rocks. Out of the scorching noonday sun. "

  Deena shook her head and dismissed him with the flick of a hand.

  "You're not afraid of being burned, Alfred. You're afraid of burning everyone else. You're not afraid of failing or dying in there, Alfred. You're afraid of succeeding. You're terrified of your own power. Had the same dreams I have. Seen our future and you're scared. Scared that it feels like the power of the gods inside you. That you want to burn the world clean of the filth infecting it."

  Before he knew it Alfred was right up in her face, almost nose to nose. He tried to ignore the pink bow of her lips and the tiniest sprinkling of freckles visible on her cheeks up close. His voice raised and broken.

  "I damn well am scared! We've had the same dreams, have we? Dreams of being drenched in blood like drowning in it. Dreams of standing on top of a hill of corpses holding a sword burning like the sun. Of a wall of monstrous filth cascading down on us like a tidal wave, casting us both in shadow. Of a force so great that all the armies of the world couldn't defeat it. And there's us, in our dream. Standing right in that shadow as it descends, looking up. You're there right next to me like a scarlet goddess, you have chunks of flesh smoking on your armour, and everything stinks of blood and hot steel. Is that the dream Deena? Is that one of the dreams that you wake up drenched in sweat after?"

  Her
eyes stared back at him unblinking. But Alfred could still see a twinkle of fear beneath the steel.

  "Yes. Every night."

  Alfred felt the surge of pent up fear and stress flowing free.

  "You know what scares me about that dream the most? It's not the unholy horde that's crashing down on our heads. It's not the bodies under my feet or the death I know is coming to me. It's that each night in the dream I look across at you, standing next to me. And you're smiling. You're smiling like you're where you want to be."

  Deena let her arms drop to her sides and she stood up straight. She jutted her head forward like a fighter and hissed back in his face.

  "You know what should scare you more, Alfred Durnling? You might see my face in your dream, but I see yours in mine. You're not scared of me because you think I'm a zealot or a madwoman."

  They stood faces almost touching.

  "No? What is it then?"

  A slow triumphant smile spread over Deena's face. Her teeth small and the whitest Alfred had ever seen.

  "You're scared of me because I'm a mirror."

  Alfred took a step back, confused.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  She raised a finger to his nose.

  "You might see my smile, but I see yours too. I see a boy become a man and everything about him is on fire. In my dream you're smiling too, Alfred. Just like me. You're looking up at that wall of death falling down upon us, and all you want to do is fight."

  Alfred stood there for a moment. He waited for his clever cutting reply to come but it didn't arrive. He felt the truth cut him. The side of himself he had suppressed and denied for years. The side that had driven him into a seminary to hide.

  He turned from her and leaned on the window. Far below him, the wasteland of the Bleaks spread out into the distance. A sorcery-ravaged battleground haunted by lost souls. He faltered there for a moment, letting his temper subside.

  "That's...that's not me. That's not what Angall's Light is for. I want to use it to heal, to ease pain. To draw out poison. And to teach. It's supposed to be about illumination, about knowledge and learning. Not about war."

  He felt Deena at his shoulder. She still spoke with the clipped pragmatic tones of a soldier, but it softened now. Almost caring.

  "You are going to heal. The Sorrow is a disease. You have to purge it and cauterize the wound and it's painful and bloody and there will be screams and kicking and biting. Alfred, if you don't give in to this, let yourself be what your blood and your god chose you to be, then this entire world and the wondrous things within it are gone."

  Alfred took a deep breath of night air and watched the vapor as he exhaled.

  "We are to be god's monsters."

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and it made him shiver but not with cold. She spoke soft and when she said his name he blushed. Glad to be facing away.

  "That's what our sacrifice is, Alfred. All of us who have this mark. We have to do abhorrent terrible things, give ourselves to violence and rage, so that everyone else doesn't have to. We carry the guilt and the burden for everyone else. Is there nothing you would be willing to sacrifice yourself for?"

  No way was Alfred going to say it to her. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction and she'd just rebuke him for vanity and foolishness. Little flame haired harpy. So he swallowed it down and said quiet and grave.

  "There is."

  The hand slipped away and when he turned she stood at the door, every inch the soldier of light again.

  "We saddle up and head to the edges of the Torrent at dawn. You should get some sleep. And eat some of that supper. You'll need your strength."

  Alfred glanced at the tray and shrugged.

  "Forget the supper. Just leave the wine. I do some of my best work with a hangover."

  Deena frowned at him and shook her head.

  "We need you clear and rational tomorrow Alfred. Don't get drunk."

  Alfred gave her a grin and walked over to pour himself a large cup of the oaky red wine. He took a deep draft. He smacked his stained lips and shrugged.

  "Because what we are going to do tomorrow is rational? We're breaking in to a forbidden zone with a wall round it put there by the gods. Could they have made any more of a cosmic keep out sign? Yet in we totter."

  Deena tutted and turned to leave.

  "By the light, they'll give blessings to anyone these days!"

  As she moved out into the corridor, Alfred raised a hand.

  "Deena."

  She turned, regarding him.

  "Yes, what is it?"

  He raised his cup and gave her a wink.

  "Try not to dream about me again tonight, if you're able."

  Deena's face a mask of pious sobriety.

  "Good night aspirant."

  Alfred waited until she had stomped off down the corridor and then took another glug of wine. He muttered under his breath.

  "Good night, aspirant."

  When he finished his cup Alfred resumed his kneeling position by the open window. He interlocked his fingers again in the flame eternal. He whispered to the wind.

  Alfred opened his eyes and looked out to the vault of stars in the winter sky.

  "Lord Angall,

  I apologize for the interruption.

  I was about to ask a favour. I know that all my requests up to now have been selfish nature.

  I have asked for money, fame, a fleet of ships, a roast lamb at one point I recall.

  I request something else now.

  Keep her safe.

  Let me shield her with what courage and strength I have. She has great work to do and she gives me hope. With her in the world it is a world worth fighting for. So I will go wherever you send me. Into the Torrent. Into the King's dungeons. Into the belly of the Sorrow itself. I will do all of this if you will help protect her and fulfil her duty. I give my sword, my light, my life and my death to fight for her.

  I will stand against the foulness of the Sorrow. I will lead armies and send every mote of its evil back into the void. I accept whatever destiny you have mapped out for me. With humility, and with gratitude.

  And Lord Angall, if I can ask one more favour.

  Please don't tell her I said any of this. She's intolerable as it is."

  As usual, god had nothing to say on the matter. But Alfred didn't mind. Sometimes silence is the best policy.

  8

  King Oligan walked side by side with Witchunter Merrick Clay. To walk next to the king like a brother unthinkable for most subjects. But they both knew who held influence in the kingdom. Oligan was necessary as the public face of the Sorrow. Ironic, he thought, since his face had been masked for decades.

  Two scarred and damaged men. One hidden beneath bandages and the other a metal mask.

  He reeks of infection, thought Oligan. How is he even alive?

  The Witchfinder had always looked like he was at death's door, but now he limped like a walking corpse. The two shattered men struggled up a wide flight of granite steps. Ahead an imposing block of a building framed with pillars. A large gloomy archway led inside.

  Oligan never liked coming here. The headquarters of the royal Witchfinders, but in practice a temple for the brotherhood of vicissitude. The cult had been spreading like a disease across the land for years. Hidden at first, the destitute and broken of the cities being seduced and indoctrinated. Under the guise of mentors and demagogues, the Witchfinders had preached to them in abandoned buildings and beneath bridges. Convincing them to turn in anyone who displayed evidence of the Magus Heart. To give up the pantheon of benevolent deities who had abandoned them in turn. Planting the seed of the deep gods into their minds, until the dreams began to visit them. The dreams that half the world now experienced. Barons in castles and peasants in hovels, all of them waking in the midst of the night, sheets soaking, eyes fixed into the dark in terror. Dreams of horrific things. Of monsters that had no true form, just a terrible endless hunger for flesh and magic. Draining the world of hope like
leeches of the soul. The brotherhood increased its ranks not by conversion, but by acceptance. A horrible despondency born of nightmares. The deflation that comes when faced with a force that cannot be defeated.

  Yet Oligan now wondered.

  If the Sorrow stood invulnerable, then why hide in the shadows for so many years? Why the desperate and meticulous hunt for every being in the world with sorcery in its blood? And why this obsessive pursuit of those few born with this particular blessing that Merrick called Angall's Whisper? The emaciated Witchfinder had journeyed far to the blazing sands of the south just to hunt down a single young girl warped with this blessing. And it had cost him.

  Yet Oligan wondered what threat these vulnerable isolated young people could offer. Oligan had seen the Sorrow first hand.

  A multitude of beings and one, a legion of corruption that tainted all flesh. It had taken the pure matter of his family and polluted their souls and blood. That was the most disgusting act of all, thought Oligan. The Sorrow made a mockery of the natural world, forging an eldritch doppelganger of all things mankind revered. An endless trauma for Oligan to see this otherworldly force using the bodies of his wife and daughters.

  Soon the Sorrow's use for them all would be at an end. It would drain every drop of sorcery from the natural world, and every scrap of meat from the bones of its people. Then it would sleep again, hibernating in the dark, fat and gluttonous. Until the world replenished or until a new one was found to devour.

  Oligan counted his days numbered. A necessary puppet only as long as there was the possibility of resistance among the peoples of the world. All the chess pieces put in place and that possibility now came to an end.

  One day soon he would be found dead in his bed, under natural circumstances. A funeral would be organized and held by his most loyal elite, the royal Witchfinders. His closest councilor Merrick Clay would say a touching eulogy amidst great pomp and ceremony. Oligan could almost feel the earth falling over his head.

  He had to stay relevant, for just a little longer. The Sorrow could not be stopped, he knew that now. They had been far too patient this time. Merrick Clay turned his bandaged face to the king, the blue eyes bloodshot and filled with malice. His voice a fire-damaged rasp.