Dark Priest Read online

  They gathered around the hostel door, and Matwau turned to face them, “Mercenaries, it’s been good riding with you. You’ve done me proud yet again. Payment will be made in order of seniority. I’m travelling with the same trader to Greater Warham via Mertein Hold. You can sign up for that tour while you’re getting paid if you wish. You won’t be able to bunk here unless you’ve signed up for a new trip. Once I’ve unpacked I’ll be at the Two Bells tavern.”

  He nodded and disappeared inside.

  Chandor found himself at the back of the queue. It moved swiftly and most of the mercenaries didn’t reappear which he took to be a sign that they had signed on for the next tour.

  When it was finally his turn, he stepped inside to where a sharp-eyed old woman checked his name against her list.

  “Chandor. Twelve days on the road at one gold per week. That’s one gold and seven silver pieces.” She counted them out and handed them across, and Chandor dropped them into his pocket.

  She held up a small vellum scroll. “So, you’re not a virgin any more, hey?”

  She chortled as Chandor bristled. “I mean, you’ve done your first tour. You’ll never be a virgin mercenary again. This chit,” she waved the parchment, “has the Mercenaries of Kha brand, and your tour details – start and end dates, the route, what we paid you, and most importantly, your rating. You got the maximum for doing extra watches and for bravery, five stars. That’s really good.”

  Chandor hid the surge of pride and instead asked, “Are there any caravans going to Bronsverj?”

  The woman consulted the book and shook her head. “I have a small caravan going to Ingot though. Interested?”

  Chandor nodded.

  “You still have a staff, no armour, and a draft horse?”

  Chandor nodded again.

  “The trip to Ingot pays less since it’s not such a risky route.” She consulted a table of numbers, “Let’s see, you’ve done one trip and received a five-star rating, and this is a blue route so…your pay will be one silver per day.”

  Chandor signed, feeling more comfortable than he had the previous time, and left to stable Sandy. He headed into the common room where the other mercenaries were gathered.

  Matwau saw him and grinned. “Come on, we’re going to get our chits tattooed. Join us and then you’ll really be part of the brotherhood.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For people who have stable homes, it’s fine to collect a bunch of scrolls to prove how good you are. Smiths and tailors have walls to hang them on. But for us, who knows where we’ll end up? Anyway, if an artisan loses his scroll he can normally go back to the Guildmaster who trained him, but for a merc, the guy who trained us is moved on or dead.” Matwau laughed. “It’s a good life, but you have to learn how to ride it.”

  Chandor followed them to the tattoo parlour. He watched a number of the team have the Mercenaries of Kha crest inked onto their forearms. The tattooist carefully copied the details from the scroll in a tight, economical script. Matwau had so many tours that the top and bottom of his arm was covered in crests right up to his bicep. The crowd cheered as Chandor sat down and received his tattoo. Chandor winced with pain, and tried to hide his happiness, both with the attention and the five stars done in gold across the front of the emblem. Remember your parents. You have no right to be happy. Do not be distracted from your purpose.

  Matwau slapped him on the back, “You’re now a merc. How good does that feel?”

  Chandor nodded. “It’s good. But this is just a means to an end.”

  “Will you join us for drinks?”

  Chandor shook his head, feeling conflicted. “No. I have things to do,” Chandor lied. He stood, paid the tattooist and left, his mind and soul in turmoil. He wanted to let himself be happy, to celebrate, to enjoy the people around him, but it felt like a betrayal of his family. They were dead and unavenged and he did not feel he could waste his time drinking and celebrating.

  Unsure of what to do, he drifted through the market where he purchased a tin cup, plate, utensils and waterskin, a leather money pouch and a tinderbox. He was tempted to get a bedroll but decided to retain some of his coin. He headed back to the mercenary barracks where he saw his staff and knew immediately what he should do.

  He went to the courtyard where he worked furiously through the training routines, spinning and striking with both ends of the staff until he was covered in sweat, his muscles ached and his wounds burned. Eventually, he had to stop, although he was not at peace. He sat on his bunk and tried to meditate, but his mind would not be still so he went for a walk.

  His tired feet carried him aimlessly through the town, not paying attention, and he found himself at the gates of the church. He gazed at the peaceful garden inside. After a moment’s hesitation, he walked in and sat down under a large tree. For a while, his mind continued to whirl, but after some time it stilled, and he thought of nothing.

  The next morning, he met his new employer as scheduled at the main gate. There were just two wagons, the trader driving one, and an unmounted guard riding with the wagon driver on the other.

  The trader, a round woman with a jovial face, greeted him heartily, “Welcome aboard. My name is Albian, these are Handor and Elanath. The further we get from the border the better, so today will be a long one to get to the way station. Thereafter, it should be a relatively safe trip. There shouldn’t be any intelligent monsters or anything too big – the castle’s regular patrols take care of that. However, they can’t kill every bear, boar, snake, lizard, and giant insect! Also, I’ve never heard of a road that didn’t have bandits – you’d think it would be easier to find an honest job in a city, but clearly some people find it easier to try and make a living in the wild.”

  Chandor nodded solemnly. “I’ll ride point.”

  He took his position at the front and they moved out. At the drawbridge they paid their taxes, a silver and seven coppers for Chandor, and were soon on route to the way station.

  Four days later they arrived at Sylverstead where the trader sold her goods and picked up new wares. The trip had been largely uneventful, although they had been forced to detour off the road to avoid a carrion crawler’s burrow, and had made a racket to drive off a forty-foot snake that had been sunning itself in the road. Both were reported to the Sylverstead soldiers who promised to investigate and clear them.

  Chandor suspected that the carrion crawler’s burrow would definitely be dealt with, but that the snake would be safe if it wasn’t near the road when the soldiers arrived.

  Chandor was expecting to spend the night at Sylverstead, but Albian was keen to press on.

  “It’s only a one day trip, so if we can do half this afternoon, and get an early start tomorrow, we can be in Ingot by tomorrow afternoon. I might be able to finish my trading by evening and be ready to leave the next morning.” She shrugged. “The more trips I can do, the more money I can make.”

  Chandor nodded and swung back into the saddle. He was now accustomed to the daily riding and no longer felt chafed and bruised at the end of each day. His wounds were healing well, and he felt strong and healthy for the travel. The three weeks on the road had been a good experience, and he thanked the Gods for their wisdom as he realised how much he had grown through his detour out of Fistoria and back.

  Later that night the crescent moon waxed high in the sky as Chandor sat guard with his back to the fire. The others were sleeping peacefully nearby. From Ingot, it would be a short trip to his old home, Bronsverj. There he hoped he would find clues and begin his real mission. At home, where it began, I will find the answers to my questions. How did the vampire escape the church? Why did it kill my family? Most importantly, where is it now? He touched the Holy Symbol at his chest and lifted a quiet prayer to the Gods, “Grant me power so that I may be your greatest weapon against the undead.”

  A sound in the long grass made him sit up straight. He listened closely. There were footsteps rushing towards them. Grabbing his staff, Chan
dor rose to his feet. He peered into the darkness that lay beyond the lantern’s light. The clatter of footsteps became louder. They were clearly approaching the camp. Chandor shouted a warning to his travelling companions.

  “Get up! Get up! We’ve got company!” he yelled.

  A group of what looked like five ragtag bandits burst into the light, running straight at him. As they approached Chandor realised with horror that they were not human but undead. Drawn to our camp by the scent of life.

  Instead of a face, each of the mindless skeletons had a gleaming, grimacing human skull. Their clothes were dirty and pierced with ragged holes. Through the holes he could see armour and bones. The first attacker’s skeletal hand gripped a straight-bladed cavalry sabre which flashed in the firelight. Behind it, four more skeletons followed closely. One was missing its hand, while another ran on a horribly broken leg as if there was nothing wrong.

  Chandor screamed and staggered back. He shut his eyes to escape from the horror before him. Images from the day his parents were killed flashed before him; merciless, lifeless eyes, and then roaring flames.

  He stumbled, falling heavily onto his back and dropping his staff. The skeletons closed rapidly, desperate to extinguish his life essence and thereby strengthen themselves. Chandor scrabbled backwards on the ground, whimpering and overwhelmed by fear. He bumped against the wagon wheel and could retreat no further.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw his companions struggling to get up. He knew that they were too slow and too late to help him. Nearby the horses reared and screamed, kicking wildly against their restraints.

  The skeletons all converged on Chandor since he was closest. They quickly covered the last yards. Chandor raised his hands over his head to ward off the inevitable blow.

  The first skeleton raised its sabre, but suddenly Chandor’s Holy Symbol started to sing. A low sustained whistle made the skeletons pause. It was followed by two higher notes and then a very high tone, as if someone was singing a scale. The last note held for a moment, and then started to get louder and louder and louder. A warm yellow light spilled from the Holy Symbol, rapidly becoming so bright it made Chandor’s eyes water. The skeletons stumbled back unsteadily as Chandor reverently lifted the shining Godstar.

  The sound and light intensified. It hurt his ears and eyes. The closest skeleton turned and ran back the way it had come. The other four stood staring at their prey, torn between two conflicting desires. One dropped its weapon. It put its hands where its ears would be, holding its skull. Another shook its head vigorously from side to side.

  Moments later, all four turned and fled.

  As they disappeared, the Holy Symbol abruptly stopped shining, and the noise disappeared. After its brilliance the torchlight seemed weak, and the camp was silent. Chandor curled into the foetal position. His whole body ached. Tears streamed from his eyes, but whether they were from the holy light or emotional pain he did not know.

  Albian made her way over and knelt down next to him. “Are you all right?”

  Chandor shook his head slightly, his mind dazed. She helped him to the fire, and Handor gave him some water to drink.

  “I had a feeling you were a Guide or a Guardian,” said Albian after an extended silence. “Despite your dark cloak, the way you act and pray gives you away.”

  “I’m not a priest,” Chandor mumbled.

  “You drove the undead away. We all saw you,” stated Elanath.

  “I’ve left the church.”

  “Well, it doesn’t look like the Gods have left you.”

  Chandor shrugged helplessly. It was common knowledge that very experienced priests could rebuke the undead, forcing them to flee their presence and sometimes even destroying them completely in the name of the Gods. Chandor was perplexed because usually only ordained priests had the necessary authority.

  Maybe I don’t need to be part of the Church to be a priest. If the church won’t let me be a Guardian of Mankind, perhaps I need to create my own order of Guardians? He smiled grimly. It could be a Holy Order dedicated to destroying evil and eradicating the undead. Not subject to the Church of Mankind’s authority and rules, and led purely by the Gods, my new order could be truly effective.

  Chandor stood. “Well, whatever I am, we’d better pack and get moving. Rebuking the undead like that only lasts a short while and I don’t know if I could do it again if they returned.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Anelle’s Mission

  “Ah, Tribon, good to see you,” Guide Eben exclaimed. “I had assumed you weren’t coming tonight.”

  “I was at the most glorious service,” said Tribon. “The choir was in magnificent form. The High Priest’s sermon was filled with wisdom. At the end, I stayed to pray. Is it too late to come in?”

  “No, of course not. At my age sleep matters both more and less. I need a nap in the morning, but I can’t get to sleep at night. Company is always welcome as long as you don’t mind if I nod off in mid-sentence.”

  “I couldn’t go to sleep now,” Tribon said as he followed Eben through to the secret study. “There are some lines from the prophecies that have been going round and round in my head. I feel like I’m on the edge of an epiphany.”

  Eben turned to the young Guardian. “I am really glad that Hengel invited you to join us in this research. You and Anelle have been a breath of fresh air.”

  Tribon’s eyes widened. It had felt for a moment as if a crisp, fresh evening breeze had just blown on his face.

  “Your eagerness and passion have been good for me, Tribon – you are a light in the darkness.”

  The words brought Tribon’s skin out in goose bumps. The orb that lit the room seemed to blaze until it filled the world. His eyes glazed over, and he felt his spirit separating from his body.

  He surged upwards, flashing through the ceiling as if he were a ghost. His spirit passed through the castle roof and into the sky. Instead of the clear night he expected he found a grey and cloudy day. He looked down as the Cathedral Castle and town of Tinsley fell away below him. Drawn by an irresistible force he streaked southwest, the dirt road to Orestund a ribbon of brown meandering below him. He followed the Drent river to Fort West where the battlements flashed beneath him as he turned south, following the road towards Carreg Kanor.

  As he approached the massive castle, the golden grass was replaced by burnt black stubble. From his eagle’s vantage, he could see thousands of Fistorian army tents and camp fires stretching eastwards of Carreg Kanor. Flags of blue with gold markings differentiated the companies and troops from each of the Duchies; the neat horizontal and vertical lines of Vander, Southsend chevrons, Nombuso circles, and the curves of Talgar. The king’s own banner flew proudly over Carreg Kanor in the stiff breeze, the simple iron gauntlet on Fistorian blue.

  Standing on the castle battlements was the unmistakable form of the Arch Wizard Del Zanath. He was the only one that appeared to notice Tribon’s spirit flying pass, inclining his head in acknowledgement.

  Tribon had no time to return the gesture as he turned. He flew a few miles to where a second army was camped on the border of the kingdom. It was double the size of the Fistorian Army. A dirty mass of goblins, kobolds, and other monsters seethed around ordered camps of elite troops. Ogres and giants towered above the general crowd. With horror Tribon realised that the soldiers in the organised squares were perfectly still, standing to attention as only controlled undead could, their skeletal and zombie minds completely under the mental direction of a powerful evil force. Still struggling to take in all the sights and the numbers of the assembled creatures, Tribon’s spirit turned northwards, flying parallel to the road along the border.

  Half way back to Fort West he spied one more company marching southwards. It was tiny in comparison to the main host and it numbered less than three hundred soldiers.

  At its head, what looked like a human knight rode a huge black warhorse. He wore full plate armour and a tabard of black with a silver coat of arms. Monsters of vario
us races travelled beside and behind him. Some were on foot, others rode horses, dire wolves or lizards.

  Tribon flashed over the company unnoticed, but then his spirit slowed and started a wide turn. He approached the company again, travelling low and slowly. Confused, he wondered at the significance. The extra numbers seemed unlikely to be decisive in tipping the battle.

  Then the leader removed his helm. For the first time on his journey, Tribon stopped and hovered in the air. It looked like Chandor. The man was older, scarred and had a look of authority and power. The leader looked straight at Tribon and he knew without a doubt that it was his wayward classmate. Before he could get over the shock, Tribon’s spirit hurtled directly back to the castle and slammed into his flesh.

  “By the light.” Tribon staggered and sat heavily in the nearest armchair. He looked in wonder at Eben, “I just had a vision.”

  “I know. I saw it reflected in your eyes as if I were watching through a crystal ball.”

  “It was the future. The Kingdom of Fistoria arrayed for war against a massive army of undead and monsters. And Chandor…”

  “Yes.” Visibly shaken, Eben tottered to the other chair. “We must not panic. Visions are not prophecies. Visions show what the future might hold, not what it will hold.” The old Guide drained the rest of his coffee and said, “You fetch Anelle, I’ll get Botha and Hengel. We’ll meet back here where we can talk safely.”

  By the time Tribon arrived with Anelle, Guide Eben had rallied himself. He served fresh coffee as Tribon told the others of his vision.

  “I can’t believe it,” exclaimed Anelle. “He’s always been obsessed with revenge but his anger was directed at evil. It doesn’t seem possible that he would ever ride with monsters. His heart is pure.”

  The High Priest frowned. “It is exactly what I feared, unfortunately. Revenge can only lead to hatred, which is the heart of evil.”