Dark Priest Page 10

  “Yes,” Eben leaned forward, closing the scroll he was reading, “Tell me all about it.”

  “It was of a classmate of mine, Chandor.”

  Eben nodded. “He’s the one who stormed out of the sending ceremony?”

  “That’s right. In my dream, I saw him dressing all in black. Black tunic, black cloak. He had shunned the white of the priesthood. Then, I saw him with a sword!”

  “Was he one of those called to make the Weapon Sacrifice?”

  “Yes! There were only a few in our class. He was definitely one. He must have reneged on his oath before the Gods!”

  “Mmm, you need to be careful how you interpret dreams, Tribon. It is always hard to tell whether they are from the Gods, or the workings of our subconscious.”

  “There is more. I saw him meditating. But he perverted the teaching of the church. In my dream, he arrogantly sat rather than kneeling in humility, and he specifically turned his back on the light of the sun!” Incredulity laced his words. “And then, as I watched, he performed a defiled miracle.”

  “It might be a prophecy, but perhaps it is just a dream. It may well be that you are jealous? Or perhaps subconsciously you are afraid that he is having exciting adventures while you do not feel your recent quest taught you much? Most likely your brain is finding a way to process all the new ideas from your reading, and is projecting thoughts and feelings onto someone you have similar feelings toward already.”

  Tribon shook his head emphatically, “I’m sure this was a prophecy, Guide Eben. Chandor was focusing on revenge, and as he did so he swelled in power. I felt a terrible fear. A sense of great foreboding. That’s when I awoke.”

  “All I can suggest is that you write it down. Capture every single thing that you can remember, each detail and feeling, while it is still fresh.”

  “Where?”

  “In your journal.”

  “Shouldn’t I add it to The Painbinder prophecies?”

  “No, Tribon. There is no evidence this has anything to do with The Painbinder.”

  “Come on, Eben! Surely you can see that it is? Hengel said that we had been brought into this, and now the Gods are providing yet more confirmation.”

  Eben looked indecisive and Tribon pressed on, “You must a least let the High Priest know, surely.”

  “Very well, he’ll be here soon. We’ll tell him and then he can decide what to do.”

  High Priest Hengel strode into the small room removing his pristine white cloak as he did so. He draped it over the back of an armchair by the fire and flopped down, “What a day. Productive, good, but long.”

  He smiled as Eben handed him a goblet of wine, “Thank you, my friend.” He took a sip and let out a sigh of contentment. “So, how goes the research?”

  Tribon shot the older Guide a look and Eben shrugged, “Tell him.”

  “I had a dream. I think it was a Painbinder prophecy. It was about Chandor.”

  Hengel jerked, nearly spilling red wine on his immaculate tunic. He carefully put down the glass before saying, “Tell me about it.”

  Tribon related the dream, interrupted only by Eben reminding him to focus on telling what he saw in the dream rather than also adding his interpretation.

  At the end, Hengel nodded, “That is concerning.”

  Tribon shot Eben a triumphant glance.

  “What do we do?”

  Hengel breathed out deeply. “Nothing right now. Make a copy of your journal and file it along with other unconfirmed predictions.”

  “Nothing? Chandor could be The Painbinder! Do you think it is a co-incidence I’ve just been included in this? That we were in class together. He has sold his soul to The Adversary, and from now on will be growing in power – doing defiled miracles.”

  “He did leave the church on a bad note,” conceded Eben.

  Hengel rubbed his temples, “He left because I refused to let him follow his desire for revenge. I was concerned that he was being consumed by hatred. I declined his request to become a Guardian.”

  “He’s continuing his quest anyway,” said Tribon. “And turned to other sources for power.”

  “We don’t know that,” reminded Eben. “While I don’t doubt your retelling, dreams are unreliable at the best of times. They are open to multiple interpretations. We can’t take action on this.”

  “You must!” Tribon demanded, leaping to his feet. A glare from the High Priest made him swallow, “Forgive me, High Priest, Guide Eben. I forget my place.”

  Hengel nodded. “Alright, you’re both right to some extent. I can neither ignore this completely, nor act on it decisively.” He stood, “The church has an extensive spy network. I will set it to watch Chandor and report everything he does back to me. If this proves to be a prophetic dream, we can take appropriate action.”

  CHAPTER 10

  A Glimpse of Power

  As they headed north east, the rolling bushveld gave way first to steeper hills, and then to ridges and canyons. Hardy yellow grass grew between the jagged rocks that covered the ground, interspersed regularly with trees whose wicked thorns ensured that no one passed too close. The going was slow and they only just made it to the Upper Ando canyon by night fall. They set up camp overlooking the huge gorge, down the centre of which the river thundered its way over boulders, still carrying ice from the Cobalt mountains.

  In the morning, the caravan wound its way down the southern canyon ridge, following a well-used path that twisted and turned to provide a suitably gentle gradient for the wagons. The canyon was filled with large boulders migrating their way downstream with each successive flood, and with tenacious shrubs that could survive the cold and occasional raging waters. With the rocks and vegetation, the canyon made an ideal position for an ambush, and everyone was tense.

  In the early afternoon Matwau checked with the trader and then pulled out his horn, giving a long, loud blast that echoed down the valley.

  Chandor raised an eyebrow quizzically.

  “We have to let the ferry know that we’re coming, otherwise we’ll have to wait. They probably know already, but best to be sure.”

  They continued for almost an hour before they finally saw the crossing. It was situated where the river had widened and slowed. Two low stone forts protected each side of the river. A thick chain ran between them anchoring a wide raft against the current in the centre of the river. As they approached, a section of the near fort’s stone wall swung open to reveal an iron portcullis with a heavily armoured dwarf behind it.

  The trader hopped off his wagon and went to pay for passage. Chandor saw the trader holding a large gem up to the light, and almost as soon as it was in the dwarf’s hand, the chain jerked and the raft started sliding toward them.

  Chandor swallowed nervously as he eyed the frigid waters. Like most Vanders he had never learned to swim as his home town’s river was icy, shallow and fast flowing.

  They loaded the first wagon and span of oxen. He watched with trepidation as they were ferried smoothly across. When it was Chandor's turn, he led Sandy on board and wedged her into the stable. When they pulled out into the river he gripped the side tightly with one hand, and his Holy Symbol with the other. Beside him, Matwau laughed his way across, seeming to enjoy the trip more and more the further from land they moved and the larger the waves became. In the middle, the waves lifted and buffeted the raft effortlessly despite its load, but the dwarven chains held firm and winched it inexorably to the far shore. When they reached the other side safely, Chandor thanked the Gods profusely as he quickly led Sandy away from the river’s edge.

  “Lots of new experiences for you, hey, Chandor?” the Nombu laughed.

  “I don’t like being out of control. Our lives are in the hands of those dwarves.”

  “One thing you’ll learn out here in the wilderness; you’re never really in control. Otec commands the lightning, the wind, and the rivers. Crossing big rivers always makes me realise how powerful He is, and how small we are. I remember that our lives a
re in the hands of the Gods, and that we live by the grace of Notomok alone.”

  Chandor was taken aback. He hadn’t ever considered that the Nombu might believe in the Gods.

  “Let’s move out,” shouted Matwau. He wheeled his pony and headed to the front of the caravan, but Chandor stood next to Sandy until after the last wagon had set off, watching the river with new eyes.

  The day was passing uneventfully when suddenly a terrifying scream exploded from right above them. A jagged shadow flashed across the ground. A moment later a vast form rushed past just over their heads. Chandor fought to control Sandy. All around him the animals bucked and reared, trying to bolt, and the wagons were thrown into disarray. Sawing the reins and gripping with his thighs, he tried vainly to find the source of the sound.

  A flash of blue to the right of the wagons caught the corner of his eye, and he turned just in time to see a massive dragon with sapphire scales bearing down on them. A hundred yards from the wagons, the gigantic creature extended its wings. It kicked up a huge dust cloud as it landed on its hind legs.

  Its leathery, cobalt wings seemed to stretch from one end of the caravans to the other. A horned, scaled head with intelligent golden eyes peered down on them with disdain from the top of a long serpentine neck.

  “Off your horses!” bellowed Matwau. “Mercenaries follow me!” He slid from his pony and started advancing toward the dragon, his arms spread wide and hands weaponless.

  Chandor slid from the terrified Sandy. He staggered as his knees almost buckled, and forced himself to follow Matwau. “Otec protect me, Otec protect me,” he murmured over and over as he went.

  The Nombu fighter glanced over his shoulder, “Drop your staff,” he hissed.

  It took an effort of will for Chandor to release his knuckle white grip on the wooden shaft, but he did so and continued to advance.

  Fifty yards in front of the dragon Matwau yelled for everyone to stop. It was only then that Chandor realised that just he and Fourie had obeyed the call.

  The three of them pulled up in a line, facing the dragon. Chandor felt completely useless, and knew that they had no chance of fighting the massive beast. Now that he was closer and the dust had settled, he could clearly see that each talon was the length of his forearm.

  The dragon laughed, its deep voice washing over them, its supremacy unmistakable. “You puny humans. Is this your guard?”

  The dragon’s breath crackled with power as it washed over Chandor, making every hair stand up. He felt as if an electrical storm was coming. The dragon’s forked tongue worked its way around the human language giving it a strange inflection. Chandor could not take his gaze from the rows of gleaming teeth.

  Matwau bowed low. “Great Blue. Truly you are worthy of the gifts we have for you.” He turned, and called to the trader, “Bring the gifts!”

  No one moved. There was no sound or sign of movement from the wagons. The dragon’s eyes narrowed. Chandor swallowed hard.

  Matwau turned back to the dragon. “Great One, forgive them. They are terrified by the sight of your might. Permit one of my guards to fetch your treasure.”

  The dragon nodded curtly, its head towering over them.

  “Chandor. In the back of the second wagon you’ll see a chest with silver clasps. There is a large horn next to it. Bring them both, quickly.”

  Chandor fled back to the wagons and found the bribe. Carefully balancing the engraved horn on top, he hefted the chest with both hands. His wound flared with pain, but he ignored it and staggered back to Matwau as fast as he could.

  The Nombu leader took the chest from him, lifting it easily, he approached the dragon. “Magnificent king of the skies, accept these humble offerings.” Matwau laid the horn on the ground and opened the chest towards the dragon, then backed away.

  The dragon’s diamond head swept down, glancing at the contents, then snaked forward at head height until it was just feet away. Chandor felt his bowels loosen, and could not prevent himself taking two steps back.

  The dragon’s face filled his vision, and he had to crane his neck to look over the long snout to the golden eyes.

  “What is this?” hissed the dragon, “An insult to me?”

  “My Lord, it is great craftsmanship, the quality makes up for the quantity,” stated Matwau. To Chandor’s amazement the fighter’s voice sounded only slightly strained.

  The dragon snorted, the gust of wind almost knocking them from their feet. Its huge head snaked backwards and it reconsidered the box. Its forked tongue flicked out as if to taste the treasure.

  It looked down at them. “You have five wagons, laden with goods from the dwarven stronghold. Why should I not take everything?”

  Matwau squared his shoulders and stared straight at the dragon. “Don’t debase yourself, dragon. We all know you could easily kill every human here and carry the wagons to your lair. But then what? The treaty would have been broken, and the merchant’s guild would hire powerful adventurers to hunt you down and slay you like an animal. Group after group would search for you with their spells and magical weapons, and eventually we would triumph. Even the huge red dragon, Roth’Zyntar, was eventually defeated by the humans. You can slaughter us now, but I would die knowing that soon your skin would be made into garments, your head displayed in a castle hall, and your treasure plundered-”

  The dragon roared, the sound knocking Matwau to the ground and cutting his speech short, “Your whole kingdom could not defeat me! I am called Bel-Targ. I rule these lands! Dwarves, orcs, giants, and humans pass on my sufferance! DO YOU HEAR ME?”

  Chandor cowered in the dirt, his head down and his eyes closed tightly against the dust thrown up by the dragon’s voice. Dimly he heard Matwau’s pitiful cry, “Yes, king of the sky. We could never win. I was wrong! I was wrong. Forgive me.”

  The dragon snorted and Chandor could feel his cloak billowing out behind him. He opened one eye and watched as the dragon reached out with a colossal clawed hand. It rolled Matwau onto his back, and pinned him to the ground. Its huge head slowly closed on Matwau until it was only a yard away.

  “I will take your toll, insufficient though it is. And I will let you go in peace, only because slaughtering droves of humans would be a waste of my time. Don’t for one moment believe that I am afraid of you, or any human.”

  With a flick of its wrist, the dragon sent Matwau flying through the air towards the wagons. It scooped the bribe up in its other claw, and leapt into the air. With a few powerful wingbeats it rose high into the sky, and was soon a spec in the distance.

  Chandor pushed himself to his feet and together he and Fourie staggered over to Matwau.

  “Are you all right?” Chandor demanded.

  Matwau was laughing and crying hysterically. “Vangarorg’s axe, that was insane!”

  Chandor sat down heavily, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him upright. “I’ve pissed myself.”

  Matwau laughed even louder, the tears running down his cheeks. “What about you Fourie?”

  The stocky mercenaries beard was bristling, his eyes still wide and his skin pale. “Wrawru.” He looked puzzled for a moment, then croaked, “Mouth… too dry…” He lurched to his feet and stumbled back to the wagons in search of a drink.

  Behind them, the mercenaries and waggoneers were emerging from their hiding places.

  “Well done, Chandor,” chuckled Matwau, “you’ve faced a dragon and survived! That’s a tale to tell your grandchildren.”

  Chandor shook his head in awe, “I had no idea they were so…” his voice tapered off as he sought words to describe it. “You hear the stories, but they don’t nearly do it justice.”

  “They are the ultimate predator. Did you see the size of his teeth?” the Nombu fighter asked rhetorically as he pushed himself to his feet. “There is only one type of creature they fear.”

  Chandor shuddered. Skeletons, zombies and vampires were potent enough, but there were two rare classes of undead so evil that their mere presence could spoil
food and the sight of them could kill. With the might of the dragon fresh in his mind, he could for the first time imagine how terrifying they would be. His voice dropped to a whisper as he said, “The undead lords.”

  Matwau snorted, “Well, yes. Them too, although luckily there hasn’t been a nightshade or lich recorded in decades.” He held out a hand and hauled Chandor to his feet. “But I was going to say ‘humans’.”

  “That’s right,” Chandor mused. “The Cleanser and Sir Ngrangor killed that dragon down in Southsend last year…” The enormity of the feat was even more apparent to Chandor having actually seen a dragon. That’s the kind of power I need.

  “That’s experience for you, that’s what it means to be a great hero! With their magical weapons and armour, strength and skills, magic and miracles, even dragons fall before them.” Matwau grinned as he punched Chandor fondly on the arm. “Who knows, maybe that will be us one day!”

  Chandor nodded grimly, as he looked to the heavens. Make it so, he prayed, and nothing will save the undead from my wrath!

  CHAPTER 11

  Undead Encounter

  Dragonpeace Cragg was a monstrosity of a castle, a shield not just for a village or town, but for the whole Kingdom of Fistoria. With its array of catapults and ballista protecting the best ford in a hundred miles, it was the natural outpost for the border of Fistoria. From behind its series of heavily manned walls the knights of Vander could dominate the entire area and keep monsters from entering Fistoria.

  A pair of watchful guards in tunics with thin vertical blue and gold stripes used their gleaming bardiches to prod to the back of the caravans and sweep underneath, while four more covered them with crossbows from the gatehouse. After careful examination, the entourage crossed the drawbridge into the town and led the caravan to the trader’s warehouses.

  Their mission accomplished, Matwau led the team to the Mercenaries of Kha staging post. Of the original ten mercenaries that had started the journey, only seven were with them. Two were dead, and Torsten had been taken straight to the Church infirmary.