A Prayer of Dusk and Fury

by D Elias Jenkins

  "Lord Angall. I apologise that I lost my faith in the wilds, and that I doubted you would see me here safe. I no longer know the grand plan you have for me, Lord, but I am aware now that it is does not involve gold or a life of silk robes and cushions. You have shown me the character building nature of suffering, and I am trying to learn and be a better holy man. I do not know why in your wisdom you have sent me here, but I will act as a conduit for you as best I can and do your good work. I hope you have received the souls of my brothers into your halls."

  Alfred peered up at the pale morning light shining down on him from the skylight at the apex of the arch above him. The motes of dust danced within it, and he tried to focus on the subtle patterns.

  Perhaps Angall's Riddles are written in nature itself. Perhaps he talks to me through dust and gossamer.

  A quiet gravelly voice came from beside his bed, breaking Alfred from his reverie.

  "Are you waiting for him to answer you, boy? I imagine it's usually a one sided conversation."

  Alfred started, and turning his head and an old man sat in the alcove next to his bed. He was broad as a bear and shrouded in tired, stained robes. His hood was drawn up. He had a rickety chess set laid out on the bedside table and was pondering his next move. Alfred flushed that someone had overheard his conversation with God. It was vanity for a holy man to assume he was special.

  "I am sorry brother I did not see you there."

  The old man shrugged beneath his heavy robes. He placed a pawn a square forward on the board. He was one of those men that did everything slow and methodical.

  "Well I did not announce myself, young master, but I am here to ensure your safety.”

  Alfred was uncomfortable at having someone by his shoulder while he slept. But he forced a polite smile.

  "Ah yes. Brother Michal said that someone would be watching over me. You are...Old Gumm?"

  Alfred could not see the monk's eyes beneath his hood, but the old mouth turned up at the corners. Grey stubble peppered his cleft chin.

  "Well, my name is Gumm, and I'm past my prime, so I suppose that fits."

  Alfred flushed a little.

  "I apologise, I didn't mean to be rude."

  Gumm scratched his stubbled chin and pondered his next chess move.

  "No offence taken, young master. I'm a bit of a dogsbody round the Monastery, truth be told. It is my honour to watch over you until you recover. I will be your guide."

  Alfred's skin prickled a little. The old monk was raggedy and reeked of cheap spirit. But there was intensity to his focus on the board that unnerved Alfred.

  "Forgive me brother, but you mentioned you are here to ensure my safety. Safety from what? Are my dangers not past?"

  The monk brought a little clay pipe out from is robes along with a pouch. He began to stuff it with strong tobacco that smelled like old leather.

  "Ironghast is vast, young master, and old. Not every part of it is safe, and it is easy to become lost. I will stay with you until you have your bearings."

  "That's kind of you brother."

  Old Gumm smiled again beneath his hood.

  "Well I'm a monk. It would not do not to be kind on occasion."

  Alfred relaxed a little in his bed and stared up at the ceiling with a smile. He felt the first hint of safety since he left Vassonia.

  "A good point, brother. It’s a quality I’m working on myself."

  Gumm placed his little pipe on the chessboard and then reached back into his robes. He brought out a battered tin hipflask and unscrewed the top.

  "And as a monk, it would not do to be perpetually sober. Can I offer you something medicinal, young master?"

  Alfred glanced around the infirmary to see if anyone was watching. He had to admit the ache in his bones would be eased with a snifter of strong drink. He reached out and took the flask from the gnarled hand of the old monk. Holding it up to his nose, he inhaled and was hit with something akin to plum brandy. He took a mouthful and gulped it down, relishing the burn and the heaviness flowing through his limbs.

  "Your hand is still shaking."

  Alfred looked down and his hand was indeed like an autumn leaf. He took another sip to drown the memories of the massacre in the wilds. He could still hear the screams.

  "I saw things. Out in the Bleaks. I... still see them."

  Old Gumm reached out and took the flask back, tipping it up to his lips. As his head leaned back, Alfred could see bloodshot blue eyes staring at him. There was something in those eyes that unnerved Alfred. They looked haunted by some terrible memory.

  "Aye lad. There are some things to see in this world, are there not? For those of us willing to travel.”

  Alfred smiled and let his head sink back. Then he jumped in his bed as human screams echoed around the infirmary. For a moment he thought that his nightmares had followed him into the monastery. He sat upright on the bed, gripping the blanket as two monks were carried into the infirmary by eight of their brethren. They were writhing and screaming and the floor was slick with spilled blood. Some of the monks slipped on the slick stone as they struggled to get the injured men on the beds. The monks whispered words of blessing as they tried to calm the stricken men down. Alfred's heart thumped as the screams of pain echoed around the chamber.

  One of the men was fighting against his brothers despite his wounds, and it took four of them to hold him down. His head was writhing on the pillow and in his suffering he caught Alfred's eye. Alfred was on the other side of the hall but he could smell the stench of blood and fear from the man. The monk was young, but his features were covered in blood. His eyes were wild.

  "Get out of here, brother! It is not safe!"

  Alfred found he had raised a hand as if to help the man and was shaking his head in confusion. The man called over again in a voice thick with blood. There was a sickening gash across his abdomen.

  "Monsters are here, brother!"

  The monks held their brother down by the limbs. The physician and herbalist monks hurried through the doors with accoutrements in hand.

  Alfred stared as they began to clean and stitch the wounds. He turned to the big old monk sat in the alcove next to him. Old Gumm sat there working his big jaw and pressing tobacco down into his pipe.

  "What kind of monastery is this?

  Old Gumm glanced up from beneath his hood and chewed his lip as if pondering the answer.

  "A very old one, full of memories. And full of strange things. Are you not also a strange thing? You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t."

  Alfred pointed across the infirmary.

  "What happened to those monks? Their wounds?"

  Gumm looked across at the stricken men. They were calming down now as the soporific herbs took effect. Their limbs twitched and spasmed.

  "They were down in the deeper parts of the Monastery, dealing with one of our less civilized residents. They had a terrible accident."

  Alfred wondered what manner of accident could have caused such horrific wounds. They looked like claw wounds. Alfred turned to look at the old monk, who had resumed focus on the chessboard.

  "You have been assigned to keep me safe?"

  Gumm glanced up.

  "I have."

  Alfred looked at the slow moving old man. He looked like he would have been a brawny man in his youth, but now he just looked like a worn down old drunkard.

  "And who keeps you safe, brother Gumm?"

  Gumm seemed to find this amusing. He chuckled beneath his hood.

  Alfred felt very far from home. Now he was trapped and vulnerable in as eldritch a place as he could imagine. An island of strangeness and peril amidst a sea of granite and dust. Once again he wondered why his insignificant blessing could be so important. If this was a place of forbidden magic and monsters, he did not for a moment think his mote of holy light could defend him. He suddenly felt as vulnerable and hunted as he ever did in the Bleaks. But it was too late now.

  He was one freak among many at Ironghast monaster
y, for good or for ill.

  Exhaustion overwhelmed him once again and fell back on the pillow into a fitful sleep.

  5

  Alfred had been shown to a small single dormitory in the western wing of the Monastery.

  He had been furnished with clean robes of coarse material. A bowl of fresh water and cloth had been left for his ablutions. Fresh blankets had been laid on the bed and the stubs of a few candles scattered on a small table. A leather-bound copy of Meditations on Angall's Riddles had been provided next to the bed. The room was stark, clean and without luxury, but after sleeping rough in the wild, to Alfred it was a palace. The monastery was vast beyond his imagining. Alfred had seen only glimpses of its depths. Just the journey from the infirmary to his dorm three floors up via a narrow winding stair. But myriad passageways had branched off left and right into the darkness.

  It had taken him another full day in the infirmary to recover from his wounds and exhaustion. And most of that he drifted in and out of sleep. Old Gumm had sat by his side most of this time, playing chess, drinking brandy and smoking his little pipe. He had not often spoken to Alfred. Just the occasional gruff acknowledgement or drunken belch.

  Alfred was glad of the time alone now. To meditate, to process the events of the previous weeks since he had left Old Vassonia. He folded his old bloodstained robes and placed them in his travel bag. There was a polished plate for a mirror on the wall. As Alfred washed his face he looked upon himself for the first time in weeks. He thought that he looked older, thinner and more careworn than he had back in the seminary.

  What he had experienced these past weeks had opened his eyes to the ancient world. The world as it was for his ancestors. Alfred had been brought up to believe that all magic was a force of doom and destruction in the world. So far he had to agree with the king on that one. Magic was nothing but trouble.

  Once he had washed and dressed, Alfred moved across to the single window of his dormitory. In it was a pane of deep green glass with a latch, offering only an eerie wash of ghoulish light that spilled on the floor. Alfred unhooked the latch and opened the window taking in deep lungful's of cold mountain air.

  The view from the monastery was incredible. From his overhanging tower it was a vertiginous drop hundreds of feet to the rocks below. Yet above the pale dust storms that blew across the Bleaks, he could see the vague shape of distant hills. Perhaps even as far as Grimstone. He remembered the innkeeper there and how he had warned them all how their journey would turn out. Hammered to death and made into a good meal. He wasn’t far wrong.

  Alfred could see brecanstanes scattered across the landscape. Like twisted black nails driven into the skin of the earth. Now that he understood what they were, black prisons for ancient souls, they gave him shivers. Carleon, or the spirit of Carleon, was entombed within one of those, ministering to the dead. The souls of his other brethren he could not account for.

  As night fell, Alfred peered out across the soulless landscape. He tried to remind himself of the words Master Phillip has said to him on the road. Angall is a campfire in the darkest night. Alfred squinted as something glimmered out in the Bleaks. Was it a fire? Were his dead master’s words taking form?

  Then he thought it was a track of the setting sun, but as he squinted, there was definitely something moving out in the wild. It was like a burning star shooting across the ground, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

  Alfred rubbed his eyes and peered out into the dusk.

  There. It was a figure on horseback, galloping at breakneck speed towards the Monastery. The hairs prickled on his forearms. Even from this height, he recognised the entity.

  No.

  A panic rose within him. The Burning Knight. The avenger who had slain wendigo like children was hurtling towards the path at the base of the mountain. Alfred remembered the words of Michal of Tithe.

  The Monastery is a repository for many things forbidden, rare, forgotten or lost. But nothing like this knight you describe.

  Alfred was shaking at the thought of the crusader getting in to the Monastery. It would kill every living soul within and leave it a ruin. Unless this strange mountaintop retreat was where it lived! Was it just another freakish soul who lurked in this old warren? The path of flames behind the unnatural charger faded in to the dust. Alfred lost track of the burning knight.

  After a few moments he began to doubt if he had seen it at all. He wondered if his misadventures in the wild had fractured his mind. Alfred tried to control his breathing. He stepped back from the window and dropped to his knees, steepling his hands.

  "Great Angall, why have you sent me here to this purgatory? I feel no sense of your presence in this cursed place. It is the end of the world, Lord. Is this my refuge from what hunts me? What good can I do hiding in such a place? Where burning spirits of vengeance roam the dust.”

  A peel of thunder rolled across the night sky outside and Alfred felt the charge of it in the air. He could smell it. He knelt there on the floor, waiting for a sign. Master Phillip had always told him that all the answers he would ever need were painted in the world for all to see.

  He stood there for several minutes looking out across the Bleaks, feeling very alone.

  His reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door. Alfred jumped a little, startled, and then stood and walked across the room. There in the doorway stood Old Gumm, a big shabby slow man with bloodshot eyes. Like an old bull put out to pasture. He had brought Alfred a clean towel and fresh water. He just stood there, swaying from drink, and did not say a word. Alfred coughed and broke the silence.

  "Brother Gumm. Thank you for bringing this. You can just put it over there if you want."

  Gumm did not move, just stared at Alfred. Then he put the water jug and towel on the floor where he stood and gestured his head at Alfred.

  "Follow me. The Abbot wants to see you."

  Alfred's heart fluttered. He was used to being summoned to his superior's offices for a comprehensive listing of his shortcomings. He wondered if it would be any different here at Ironghast.

  "The Abbot? Am I in trouble?"

  Old Gumm just grunted and turned to walk down the corridor.

  "Supper, young master. Make sure your fingernails are clean and follow me."

  6

  Alfred followed Old Gumm down a series of narrow, twisting corridors. There was an unsettling quality to the monastery that disorientated Alfred. He could not quite judge where he was within the vast complex as viewed from the outside. And if Gumm had not been there to guide him, he may have become lost. The big old man shambled down the passages, muttering to himself. Alfred sensed that he was given every menial task the Monastery had to offer. And looking after an acolyte like himself was not seen as an honour.

  The smell of age lingered wherever he walked. Darkness had fallen and moonlight spilled in the windows to gather in pools upon the stone floor, illuminating the fine motes of dust that floated throughout the monastery. Alfred wondered if it was a remnant of the same dust that blew out in the Bleaks, the powdered bones of the ancient dead. They passed by various ornate doors laced with gold filigree and painted red. A locked, all silent within. All containing secrets.

  Finally Gumm led them through a pair of oak doors into a large hall with various alcoves leading off. Within it monks were sat at long log tables, supping and speaking in hushed tones. Braziers were placed throughout the hall. Giving it a warm orange glow where shadows played the walls. On a raised platform at the far end of the hall was a long banquet table which Alfred knew must serve the elders of the order. The room smelled of hot food but not anything Alfred recognised and nothing that stoked his appetite. Beneath that was the earthy smell of old robes and many warm bodies huddled together. A large stone wash basin sat on a pedestal at the entrance to the hall.

  Gumm nudged Alfred as they entered.

  "Wash your hands, young master."

  Alfred gingerly stepped over to the bowl and washed his hands in the accustomed fashion. The
chattering grew louder behind him and a hundred eyes burned into his back. He grimaced and whispered over to Gumm.

  "Brother Gumm, I did not realise I was to be presented to everyone."

  Gumm just grunted and began to wash his own big, gnarled hands.

  “The monks are curious. You are the first to arrive that is blessed with Angall’s Whisper. They have heard the rumours that you and the others are to play a great part in the war.”

  Alfred frowned.

  “Others?”

  Gum nodded.

  “You didn’t think you were Angall’s unique little snowflake, did you? When that blessing manifests, there are always a few.”

  Alfred felt sheepish and looked to the floor. He felt many eyes glancing across from the alcoves.

  “They must have been expecting some hulking warrior. I’m sure they weren’t expecting me.”

  Gumm smiled as he dried his hands.

  “Don’t worry, the order has seen lots of strange things seek refuge here over the years. What they are likely most surprised at is how normal you look.”

  Alfred’s brows furrowed as he took the towel from Gumm and dried his own hands.

  “You say I am the first? How many others like me are you expecting?”

  Alfred was secretly glad he was not the only one like him. It took some of the pressure off his shoulders and made him feel less lonely.

  Gumm shrugged.

  “Not more than a handful will be born at any time with that blessing. Some of those that are will be caught by the Witchfinders or killed on the journey. But all that are blessed will be drawn to this place. They will see it in their dreams and in waking visions until they make the pilgrimage. They will not be able to resist.”

  Alfred nodded. He spoke quietly as he scanned the hall for an empty space at a table.