Dark Priest

  Dark Priest

  by

  Dale Vice

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2017 Dale Vice

  All Rights Reserved

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dark Priest is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover illustration by: Elene Carpenter / DesignDynamics

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my wife, Leza, beautiful and beloved daughter of the Most High, who continually proves the power of love.

  Contents

  Map 1: The Kingdom of Fistoria

  Map 2: The Vander Duchy

  1. Nightmares and Dreams

  2. The Sending

  3. Treachery in the Night

  4. The Plan

  5. Mercenary

  6. The Painbinder Prophecies

  7. Into the Darkness

  8. Dor-Roc-Gan

  9. Tribon’s dream

  10 A Glimpse of Power

  11. Undead Encounter

  12. Anelle’s Mission

  13 Return to the Undead

  14. Miracles

  15. Home

  16. The Quest and the Weapon Sacrifice

  17. A Lead at Last

  18. Wanted

  19. Following the Lead

  20. Corruption

  21. Saviour of Salanverj

  22. Rage, Sir, and the Silver Sceptre

  23. Consolidation

  24. Dawn

  25. Ice and Fire

  26. The Shadow King

  27. Tribon’s Plan

  28. Sanctuary

  29. The Castle

  30 Pride before the Fall

  31. Chandor’s Choice

  32. No Peace for the Wicked

  More by Dale Vice

  The Kingdom of Fistoria

  The Vander Duchy

  CHAPTER 1

  Nightmares and Dreams

  Chandor surged forward, swinging his mace. Metal rang as it bounced off his opponent’s shield. He lifted the mace again, his arm burning with the effort, and brought the studded head crashing down.

  His lungs were on fire. He sucked huge ragged breaths through his open mouth. Eyes wide behind the slits in his helm, he watched, waiting. He saw a gap and punched with the metal shield on his left arm, but he was too slow. The blow didn’t land.

  Chandor’s thin, sixteen-year-old body ached inside his heavy plate armour. His heart hammered in his chest. Sweat plastered his shoulder-length, black hair to his head. With a grunt, he swung his mace again. Part of him longed for the wooden staff he had been trained to use by the Guides. No! I must become a Guardian to get my revenge, he thought.

  Chandor’s opponent ducked and his mace sailed harmlessly over her head. Before he could recover, her shield smashed into the side of his helmet. He staggered. She lifted her war hammer high, and Chandor raised his shield to ward off the blow. A moment later, her shield slammed into his breastplate.

  Chandor staggered backwards. His heel caught on the ground and he overbalanced. He fell heavily onto his back.

  He lay, defeated, panting in the dust.

  “Are you going to stay down there all day?” Anelle asked as she removed her helmet. Wisps of plain brown hair had escaped her plait and were stuck to her face with sweat. She had full lips and a quirky smile that Chandor found pretty, but her nose and mouth were slightly too big for her face. Chandor suspected that her crush on the class champion, Tribon, would never be reciprocated. She hooked her gleaming steel war hammer to her belt and extended her hand to help him up.

  “Frig!” Chandor swore as he dusted himself off.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Chandor. While you spent two years studying the Sacred Texts with the Guides, I was doing my first apprenticeship with the soldiers at Fort Dawn. I may be the better fighter, but your faith is much stronger than mine.” Her voice was deep for a girl but was filled with warmth and compassion.

  Chandor knew she was trying to make him feel better, but the comment stung. He retrieved the studded steel mace from the ground. “It will be different when I face the undead,” he swore. “Then you’ll see what I can really do.”

  There was a snort behind him. “That’s so typical! Your obsession has blinded you to the truth, Chandor. You don’t have the skills or the character to be a Guardian of Mankind.”

  Chandor whirled, gripping his shield and mace tightly. “Back off, Tribon, or you’ll eat my steel.”

  Tribon’s eyes glittered dangerously from within his helmet. “Anger and threats, Chandor? You’re a disgrace to the church.” The bigger boy’s longsword inched upwards. The large shield he carried so comfortably was half again the size of Chandor’s, providing more protection and delivering heavier blows. They had sparred regularly during their novitiate, and both knew Tribon was the better fighter in every way. He was stronger, faster, and tougher, with greater reach and better discipline. In two years, Chandor had never won a single bout against him.

  Before things could escalate, a powerful bellow stopped them in their tracks.

  “Second-years, gather round.”

  It was Sir Botha, the greatest Guardian at the Cathedral Castle in Tinsley. He had been their weapons trainer for the past two years. His full plate armour was of such high quality that one could not slip a blade of grass through the joints. Smite, his magical war hammer, glowed silently at his side. His shield was strapped to his back. His white tabard was, as always, pristine. Known throughout the region for his supernatural fighting skills and ability to perform mighty miracles, the fearsome Guardian had recently been knighted. Chandor looked up to him with an awe that bounded on reverence.

  The second-year novices knelt in front of him, forming a semi-circle so they all could see.

  “It is time for your sending. Change into your full-dress tunics, then go and wait in the Serenity Chapel. High Priest Hengel will call for you one at a time to discuss your futures. No matter what he sends you to do, I hope that you always remember what I have taught you; Not only how to fight, but when to fight, and how to honour the Gods if you must fight. Remember that you are called to be holy in whatever you do, whether as a Guardian, a Guide, or outside the church.”

  Sir Botha looked solemnly at each member of the class. “If I don’t get the chance to speak to you again, let me say now that it has been a privilege and an honour. May the peace of Notomok be with you.” He nodded, turned on his heel, and strode from the practice yard.

  It took a moment for the novices to realise that they had been dismissed. Then they all began excitedly talking at once.

  “I can’t believe we’re done!”

  “What do you think they’ve decided?”

  “Tribon will be a Guardian for sure. Gert, you’ll be sent to your father’s workshop.”

  Tribon stood. “Nothing is final until the High Priest has given us our scrolls,” Tribon stated firmly.

  Chandor could feel his heart hammering in his chest as the chatter swept over him unheard. Ready at last! Now I can start on my quest. He had little doubt he would be accepted into the Guardians of Mankind, the church’s small but well-trained and well-equippe
d army. Where he would be sent, and the specifics of his mission, would remain a mystery until he spoke to High Priest Hengel. With his mind focused solely on the future, he stood and started towards the dressing rooms.

  “Chandor!”

  He was jerked out of contemplation by Anelle’s voice. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement. “This is it! Where do you think you’ll be sent?”

  “As long as I can hunt the undead, I don’t care.”

  She reached out and placed her hand gently on his shoulder. Chandor felt himself relax. He let out a sigh and smiled at her. “What about you? Any preferences?” They had talked about it a hundred times over the past year, and he knew that she wanted adventure and excitement.

  “Whatever Otec wills,” Anelle said piously, before laughing. “That said, I pray Otec wills me to be a Guardian! And hopefully, my mission will enable me to move around for the next couple of years. I’m sick of this place. Sixteen, and I’ve only ever seen Fort Dawn and Tinsley!”

  Chandor nodded. Travel wasn’t something he particularly wanted. Just revenge.

  “A bodyguard for a travelling Guide?” Anelle mused. “That would be great. Or sent to retrieve a relic for the church? Maybe I’ll be sent north to help fight the orcs. I’d like that.”

  They walked together, Anelle imagining various possibilities until their paths separated.

  In the men’s armoury, the other boys surged back and forth, flicking each other with wet towels. They talked loudly and animatedly about their futures, wound up with adrenaline. Good-natured teasing and punches hampered their progress as they cleaned their armour. Chandor sat quietly out of the way, in a dark pool of thought, as he worked oil into every corner of his plate mail. Another test you’re all failing, he fumed silently, as a water fight broke out near the baths. The Guardians say, “Power through purity of purpose,” but none of you have purpose. Chandor hefted his breastplate onto its stand. He stripped and washed his clothes, before slipping into the bathing pool. He submerged himself in the warm water, glad to have the noise cut out momentarily.

  Before being taken to the Cathedral Castle at Tinsley, Chandor had never bathed. Water was too scarce and cold throughout most of the Vander Duchy to do anything but sponge down from a bucket once a week. Now, he wondered how he had ever lived without the physical and spiritual cleansing of the church. When he ran out of breath and was forced to lift his head from the water, the others were still splashing and making a noise. He suddenly felt claustrophobic. He washed quickly and changed into his white ceremonial tunic and cloak. Then he hurried to the chapel.

  Serenity was the smallest and quietest of the castles’ three chapels. Tucked away in the far corner of the castle, and barely able to seat thirty people, it was Chandor’s favourite place to pray. He glanced around and was glad to find that he was the first one there.

  He shut the door behind him. The room was brightly lit by miraculous orbs which hung from slender chains. Colourful tapestries and paintings adorned the walls. The altar was of white marble. On it were three lit candles, for the three Gods of Mankind. Behind the altar was a towering sculpture, a large version of the Holy Symbol that Chandor wore around his neck.

  While most novices’ Symbols were made of wood, his was pure silver – a gift from the High Priest himself. It was fashioned in the shape of the Godstar; Two diagonal lines forming an x, and a single, longer line down the middle. The first diagonal line represented the sword of Takatifu Roho, the spirit warrior. The second signified the staff of Notomok, the healer. The vertical line down the centre symbolised the sceptre of Otec, the king. Chandor squeezed the Symbol like a lost miner clutching his lantern, and again thanked the Gods for their protection.

  He walked down the aisle. Just before the altar rail, he bowed his head reverentially and sank to one knee. He self-consciously looked around to confirm that no one else was present.

  His voice burned with passion as he whispered, “Almighty Otec, I dedicate myself to your service. Purify me, and make me holy so I can drive out evil.” He thought back to the nightmare of flames that woke him each morning. He recalled the screams of his family that echoed in his mind, and a need for vengeance rose inside him. “Takatifu Roho, I know you have called me to fight for good in the world. Bless me with your divine power to make me the mightiest of warriors.”

  He thought of The Cleanser, the most powerful Guardian in the kingdom. Most boys dreamed of being a famous knight like Hans the Destroyer or an adventurer like Ngrangor Bothbreaker. For the past four years, Chandor had longed only to become a priest like The Cleanser.

  He stood, raising his eyes to the arched ceiling. He lifted his hands and called out, “Holy Notomok, grant me the faith to perform miracles in your name, like the great Guardians before me.”

  Chandor could almost feel the power of the Gods filling him.

  There was a loud knock at the door and he whirled around. The door opened, and a Guide of enormous girth stepped through the doorway. The white tunic of the priesthood fell like a tent from his wide shoulders, over his huge stomach, and down to his knees where it almost met the top of his white leather boots. In his meaty hand, a thick wooden staff gleamed with polish and care. A square-cut beard of brown and grey bushed out from his ruddy red face. At the centre of his chest hung a simple wooden Symbol with just one vertical and one horizontal line representing the broken staff of Notomok. A colourful stole, knitted by grateful villagers, hung over his shoulders and down his front.

  The famous Guide of Mankind smiled broadly, his eyes twinkling as at some inner joke, as he boomed, “Peace be with you, Chandor.”

  Chandor bowed his head, “May the Gods be with you, Guide Jurgen.”

  “How are you doing?”

  Chandor shrugged. “As good as can be expected.”

  Jurgen nodded. “Does the prayer help?”

  “No. Nothing can take away the pain,” Chandor replied. “But I’m glad I was brought here. Takatifu Roho understands. Otec knows what I need.”

  Jurgen lowered his huge bulk onto a nearby pew. “You know, Chandor, it is easy to forget that the essence of the Gods is love. Otec is both king and judge, but remember that He is also the tender and loving father of mankind.”

  Chandor nodded respectfully, while internally fuming over the interruption.

  Jurgen continued, “Takatifu Roho is indeed the spirit warrior, but it was His power that created the heavens and the earth. Notomok came to earth disguised as a prophet and defeated The Adversary, but the message he preached while on earth was that of healing and forgiveness.”

  Chandor’s stare back was flat.

  Jurgen held the glare for a moment, then smiled. “It is the end of your novitiate with the Guardians of Mankind, what do you what to do next year?”

  “The Gods have called me to fight evil.” Chandor reached up and touched his Holy Symbol. “I will be ordained as a priest and become a Guardian of Mankind. Then I will hunt and destroy the undead.”

  “Mmm,” Jurgen nodded. “Don’t you think you might be called to be a Guide? Your experiences, the pain in your past, they give you great insight and can be a source of compassion. All over this kingdom there are people like you that have been hurt, people who need to be loved.”

  Chandor growled, “I don’t have love, I have hate. I will use that for the glory of the Gods.”

  Jurgen was about to respond when the door burst open and a group of novices crowded in. The stopped talking as soon as they saw Chandor and Jurgen, but the peace was gone.

  Jurgen sighed. “It was good to talk, Chandor. You get back to your prayers and I’ll call you when it is time for your sending.”

  Chandor had been kneeling in prayer for almost two hours when there was a whisper at his side.

  “Chandor. It is time.” Guide Jurgen had slipped silently into the pew beside him. “Come with me, I will escort you to High Priest Hengel’s study.”

  Chandor nodded and rose, his stomach suddenly in knots. He looked around and
saw that he was the last one to be called. They left the chapel and made their way through the gardens to the keep and Hengel’s quarters. Chandor knew the way and could have gone alone, but it was church tradition that novices were provided with an escort to their sending. Chandor found himself strangely comforted by the presence of the huge priest who did not bother to make idle small talk.

  They paused outside Hengel’s door. Guide Jurgen placed a large meaty hand on Chandor’s shoulder and squeezed, then turned and walked away. Chandor waited until Jurgen was well down the passage before taking a deep breath and knocking at the door.

  “Enter.” The High Priest’s voice was rich and smooth.

  Chandor opened the door and stepped in. The High Priest was seated behind his desk. His back was to a fireplace filled with glowing coal. The room was warm enough that the High Priest’s white cloak hung on a hook near the door and his woollen bracers lay neatly near the corner of his desk. His Holy Symbol was a circular gold medallion embossed with the sceptre of Otec but his tunic was simple white cotton no different from Chandor’s. Waves of thick dark hair combined with his luxurious beard in a way that made Chandor think of a lion.

  Hengel stood and made his way around his desk towards two low chairs on either side of a coffee table. Chandor knew that Hengel had been a Guardian of renown before being sent to lead the church at Tinsley. Although the High Priest’s work now consisted mainly of meetings and writing, it was clear from his powerful, stocky body that he remained in fighting shape.

  “Welcome, Chandor. Be seated. Can I offer you some water, wine, or coffee?”

  “No thank you, High Priest.”

  Hengel sat and poured himself water from a jug. He studied Chandor as he sipped it. He carefully placed it back on the table and said, “You’ve been with us for four years now.”