The panic started to rise. She prayed that she would not fall into the custody of that Witchfinder. She had never been so scared of anyone in her life.
At the back of the crowd, with his handful of loyal crewmen gathered around him, the huge shadow of Cyrus Blackweather loomed. What had her life become, she wondered, when the closest thing to a familiar face and a comfort was such a monster? Was he just going to stand there until the sale was done and collect his profit from her death?
What the auctioneer said had sent a shiver through her. It had not occurred to her that she would be worth more as an ingredient in a potion or spell! As soon as the auctioneer had said it, Deena knew that if the Witchfinder won the bid, being torn open and used for some forbidden ritual was the fate that awaited her.
Her strength faded and she sagged in the greasy hands of the auctioneer. Two assistants came up on the platform and held her by the arms. The auctioneer leaned his sweaty head in close to her and licked his rouged lips.
"Release your blessing girl, or I'll choke the life out of you right in front of all these people. No one will care."
Deena shook her head. But the auctioneer grabbed her throat in one fat hand and squeezed. Deena could not breathe, her eyes bulged out of her skull. She writhed and kicked but it was no use, she was held firm. Deena focused on kindling the bright little spark behind her breastbone. Her throat began to glow and the light even shone through the auctioneer's hand. Illuminating every vein and bone within. She opened her jaw as wide as she could and the burning mote floated from her mouth and drifted upwards.
In a deft movement, the auctioneer swung a wide necked bottle around and caught the burning ember. He affixed a stopper and then turned to the crowd. He held the bottle up, its dancing mote glowing like a firefly within.
"Behold, Angall's Whisper!”
The assembled let out a collective gasp. Within moments, hands were being raised and bags of gold and coins rattled.
"What shall I be bid for such a rare piece of magic? Do I hear one hundred Doonar? One hundred and fifty Doonar?"
The two assistants stood recording the influx of bids. One giving an elaborate series of hand signals to the crowd. The other documenting everything in a large leather-bound book.
Deena was shocked by the clamour rising around her. She had fallen to her knees when the auctioneer had released her. And she just stayed there. The auctioneer waved the bottle holding her blessing around.
When her eye caught the Witchfinder at the front of the crowd a chill ran through her. The expression on his face was one of utter rapture. He was staring at the bottle holding her mote of magic. The Witchfinder's bony hand rose and he called out in a strangely feminine voice. Smiling around him as he spoke.
"Three hundred Doonar."
A murmur of amazement went up in the crowd, but no hands challenged the bid. Deena's guts turned to water and she knelt on the platform. Staring at the wooden boards and breathing hard.
A heavy set man in yellow silk robes gave a warm smile to the Witchfinder. He jangled his moneybag aloft. In a relaxed baritone he spoke.
"Three hundred and seventy."
The auctioneer pointed a fat hand at the yellow robed man and snapped his fingers.
"Three hundred and seventy! For a manifestation of magic so rare, do I hear more? We may not see the likes of this again."
The Witchfinder smiled and raised his finger.
"Four hundred."
The crowd gasped and chattered, and Deena looked to the yellow robed man in desperation. She knew not a single thing about him, and had no idea of his intentions. All she knew was that no matter how bad a man he was, it was preferable to being taken back to Vassonia with this Witchfinder. She looked again at the man in yellow silk. He swithered over Deena's worth, his face furrowed as he performed mental calculations. Deena's heart thumped as she watched him.
Then he shook his head and took a step backwards. Deena's heart sank. She scanned the crowd for other bidders, but no one gestured.
She accepted her fate. So it was over then.
At the back of the crowd she stood the hulking shape of Cyrus Blackweather. His wild eyes shone out from beneath the hood, and he was looking down at his hand. Between the six inch claws he held his magical dice, his gift from Livretti. He rolled both of the eight- sided artefacts around his palm with expert dexterity. Watching the symbols change and morph in a pictographic language almost no living being still understood. The dice glowed and small blue sparks issued from them as they spun. Blackweather stared at them so intently it was as if he was aware of nothing else in the world. Deena tried to catch his eyes but he paid her not the slightest bit of attention. He was lost in the Bones.
The auctioneer dragged Deena up by the arm and she winced.
"Well, if there are no more bids, then I will declare this article sold, to the slim Vassonian gentleman in the black-"
“HOLD!”
The voice that reverberated through the crowd rumbled in the wooden boards beneath her feet. She looked up. Captain Blackweather had stepped forward and those nearby shirked away from him. His burning eyes glared out from the shadow of his hood. The auctioneer offered him a nervous smile and shook his jowly head.
"Sir? Do you wish to make another bid? But are you not the seller of this artefact? I do not understand."
Blackweather glanced across at the gathering of Vassonians. And then back at the auctioneer. Deena noticed that the Witchfinder's face was a mask of concealed hate. Blackweather shrugged.
"I'm afraid I have it on authority from a higher power that this particular article is no longer on offer. Therefore I am withdrawing it from sale immediately."
The auctioneer mouthed wordlessly for a few moments. The sweat was gleaming on his face causing his makeup to run.
"Higher authority? What higher authority sir? It is yours to sell."
Blackweather held up his dice for a moment in open palm, and then slipped them back into his deep coat pocket. The crowd parted further around him, sensing the danger, as if he were a keg of black powder that could explode at any moment.
"On Lord Livretti's authority. The Bones have been rolled, and they have given me a clear message. Once the Bones have been rolled, there is no turning back. One cannot argue with the hand of fate."
The auctioneer looked to his two scribes for advice. They shrugged back at him. He turned back to Blackweather and opened his hands in a pleading gesture. The crowd was whispering in excitement and confusion.
"The hand of fate? This is unorthodox. I'm not sure if-"
Merrick Clay's shrill voice rose up from the crowd. Deena looked across at him and the Witchfinder was livid. His eyes had lit up in his pale face and he pointed a finger at her. He could not contain the venom in his tone.
"I will not leave here without my purchase! I have bid highest, and my coin was good. This is unacceptable, as a man of honour you will acknowledge this offer's validity!"
Blackweather turned his head to Merrick Clay and grunted.
"You will be recompensed, Witchfinder. I'll give you coin. But you will not leave with this girl. For your own notes, I am incurably dishonourable. I mean, look at me, would you take my word for anything?"
The auctioneer stuttered and stumbled and dabbed his face with a green silken handkerchief. The bottle containing Deena's magical mote sat at his feet. Deena eyed it with longing, as if it was a vital part of her that had been excised. The auctioneer blurted out.
"I suppose...I mean I guess that this girl is his property to do as he-"
Blackweather waved a hand and cut the auctioneer off. He fixed eyes with Deena as he spoke, and his expression was inscrutable to her.
"She is not my property. There has been a terrible administrative error. She is a valued member of my crew, and a corsair of impeccable skill. She set fire to a Vassonian ship, don't you know..."
Blackweather cast a sidelong glance at the Witchfinder and offered a wolfish grin.
"Burned
it into the sea."
Merrick Clay was vibrating now. His finger shook with rage as he pointed at Deena again. Deena shrank beneath his gaze. She had no idea why Cyrus Blackweather was intervening in her fate but she was grateful to the monster all the same.
Deena piped up in a small voice.
"Well it was more an accidental conflagration that anything else. Just sort of got out of control."
She glanced confused at Blackweather and whispered.
"Probably best not to bring that up, Blackweather, since all the actual witnesses are dead from either me burning them or you eating them?"
Blackweather winked across at her.
"Own your work, lass."
Merrick Clay stepped forward and addressed the entire crowd like a demagogue. Here was a man used to drumming up hatred and fear amongst the masses. Of getting townsfolk to point fingers at their own out of terror. There was a violence and cruelty in his eyes that she had never seen on anyone. In his hateful whisper he spoke.
"Then even more she must answer to the king's justice! I should have known better than to attempt business with a Karkaren. I thought there were almost none of you people left, just a scattering of pit-fighters and beggars. This is what happens when we visit the old colonies. You must all remember that Dashai is a protectorate of Vassonia and that our delicate relations must not be damaged. Acquiesce to my request and we will leave quietly."
Blackweather took another step forward and drew back the sides of his coat. Revealing the curved bone handled knives that were as long as Deena was tall. He rested his clawed hands upon their pommels as he spoke.
"I have never begged for a single coin in my life. I have taken what I want. I have spent my time in the pits though, in my salad days, tearing pink men apart to roaring applause. It always fascinated me how you little people come apart. Like warm bread."
This sent the Witchfinder over the edge. His four hulking Hatchetmen stepped forward and placed a hand on the axes at their belts. Their stubbled square jaws set hard beneath the dirty leather half masks they wore. Merrick spun on the crowd with venom.
"I will not be outdone. This witch, this little red haired devil, is mine ! King Oligan of Vassonia demands it. You peasants with your bric-a-brac magical market filled with that, you have no idea what real power and influence looks like! You've been tolerated, but you'll all be shut down soon enough. But this, this little bitch is power, power that could bring everything we've built down around our ears. Don't you see? She is illegal, and must come with me. I beseech you all."
Blackweather drew back his hood and narrowed his ferocious eyes at the Witchfinder. The crowd surrounding the Captain stepped back even further when they saw his face. Deena was not surprised. The myriad scars, the wild hair and amber eyes, and the flashing sharp teeth as long as a man's finger. He was terrifying to behold. Yet still the slender Witchfinder scared her more. There was a void within him that sucked all happiness and hope into it. Merrick Clay stood tall and jutted his chin.
"You will remember what happened to Karkaren savages that resisted the king's will."
Blackweather smiled and patted his pocket.
"I do remember. And I recall a skinny Witchfinder there giving the orders. My god has spoken through the Bones, and he tells me that this shop is closed for the day.”
The auctioneer had stepped to the edge of the stage, dragging Deena with him. He raised one flabby arm and gestured for peace to the tense crowd.
"Now now, please gentlemen, remember where you are. We struggle to keep the peace here as it is, we cannot have-"
Blackweather snarled from the corner of his mouth. And the auctioneer took a little jump backwards.
"Shut up, fat man. If that girl's not down here next to me in three heartbeats, I'm opening you up and eating what's inside."
The auctioneer looked at Blackweather for a long moment, taking in his features. Then he turned to Deena, his beady eyes brimming with tears. He whispered to her.
"Get off this stage, girl! Get away from me right now!"
Deena stood, staring at the auctioneer. She straightened her ragged dress. With as much dignity as she could muster, walked past the fat man and down the wooden steps towards Blackweather. As she passed, she whispered.
"He'll eat you anyway."
She reached Blackweather's side and stood in his shadow. Strangely comforted by the musky scent of his fur. Sandman stood beside the Captain with two or three of his men. Deena looked up to the Karkaren and cleared her throat. In her politest voice she spoke.
“Blackweather. Angall bless you for your kindness...."
The Karkaren kept staring at the Vassonians opposite. But raised a hand to her and waved his finger.
"You'll address me as your captain."
Deena squared her shoulders and looked at the sandy arena floor.
"Yes Captain Blackweather."
Merrick Clay glanced from Deena to the Captain and back. He smiled and his sickly green eyes lit up with recognition.
"Blackweather? Cyrus Blackweather? Well, you've been a thorn in the king's side for years. There's a price on your head, Karkaren and I'll pay any man here who collects it. Two birds with one stone, this is going to be a rewarding day."
Blackweather shrugged and snorted.
"Yes I'm sure King Half-a Face will be giving you a royal kiss when you get back from your steadfast efforts here today."
He raised a hand. "Hang on a minute."
The Captain turned his head and whispered to Sandman.
"Sandman. I'm off on the Road of Bones again, I'm afraid. You will look after the ship and the boys while I'm away?"
Sandman swallowed hard and set his jaw.
"We stay here Captain, we fight by your side."
Blackweather shook his head.
"No, Sandman. I'll need your sword, but use it to get out of here. It won't be safe to trade again in Dashai for a while. I'll find you one day, you know that the dice will lead me back."
Sandman looked around the arena, at the simmering violence in the air, and the ruin of a good trading mission. He shrugged and gave his captain a grim smile.
"I think sir, if I'm honest, this may be a dying industry."
Blackweather grinned.
"Aye, old friend, I think it is. But there's a real war coming on the horizon, and we may need every scrap of magic left in the world to fight it. So keep to the hideaways and keep yourselves and cargo safe. I will find you when I need you.”
Sandman gestured to the other crewmen. They backed off through the crowd towards the sloping exit, their hands on their swords all the way. He nodded once to Blackweather as he went.
Merrick Clay stood in front of his men, the huge hounds poised at his feet, their lips drawn back in a snarl.
"Well, Karkaren. My patience is at an end. You send that brat across to me, or you will feel the justice of King Oligan. "
Blackweather took a long glug of from his bottle and then cast it aside. After belching he wiped his furry hand across his lips.
"Why don't you and your gang of drooling monkey-men turn tail and leave while you can.”
The Witchfinder gestured behind him.
"Hah. There are several of us, plus any man here who wishes to collect your bounty. I would not bet on your chances, beast."
Blackweather rolled his shoulders out, and then offered the Vassonians a dark grin. He drew his knives in a wide sweep and lowered himself into a fighting stance.
"Well I, for one, am really fascinated to see what's going to happen now."
12
The first day of Alfred’s training as a paladin.
He stood on the tallest tower of Ironghast, looking down a long deep valley that snaked behind the monastery. At the end of that valley was something that chilled Alfred’s heart.
A vast swirling maelstrom of iron coloured cloud that slowly churned. It was half as big as the steep cliffs on either side of it. Deep within it flashes of sickly green sorcery erupted. Alfred in
stinctively knew it was not the same kind of sorcery that flowed in his blood. It was something corrupt and ancient.
He had heard tales of the Torrent, most acolytes had. A battleground from the old war that had scarred the land so badly that all the gods could do was seal it off. Powerful sorcery kept that area of the world in isolation from the rest.
Alfred felt the icy wind bite into his cheeks. He drew his hood up and huddled himself for warmth.
“What are those green flashes within?”
Invar gritted his teeth and took a swig of brandy from his hip flask.
“That is the power of the Sorrow, trying to get out.”
Alfred felt a shiver that was more than cold. The green flashes looked putrid and diseased.
“The Sorrow still lives within? After a thousand years? Then I can think of no place I less want to try and get inside.”
The old paladin shook his head and swallowed.
“They’re bloody fools, sending you in there with nothing but your faith.”
Alfred’s belly churned with fear at the prospect.
“I don’t want to go in there alone. “
Invar put a hand on his shoulder.
“You won’t be alone. Others like you are being drawn here from all across the world. They’ll likely be as scared and unprepared as you are. Bluheart believes that Angall will protect you once you are inside.”
Alfred looked up at the old bear of a man.
“You don’t think he will?”
Invar shrugged then tapped the pommel of his sword.
“He might. But you’ll do a lot better to trust in a sharp blade by your side. We don’t have long. I won’t be able to send you in there a master swordsman. But I’ll show you how to make anything that tries to do you harm think twice.”
Alfred’s gaze was drawn back to the sorcerous mass at the end of the valley below.
“Will a blade be enough in there?”
Invar shook his head.
“No. No it won’t. You’ll need to learn to direct that light inside you better than you do. Your light will guide you in the dark. It will be drawn to magic like its own. You’ll be drawn to the resting place of the sleeping servants of Angall. That little light inside you may be the only light there is in there.”
A Prayer of Dusk and Fury Page 13
