Dark Priest Read online

  “Chandor, is that you?”

  The voice jerked him from his reverie and he turned in his saddle, his staff at the ready. Looking down, he was amazed to see his friend standing next to Sandy.

  His face split into an even bigger grin. “Anelle!” He immediately swung down from Sandy’s back. He longed to take her in a tight hug, but instead bowed deeply. The words tumbled from his smiling mouth, “It’s great to see you. What are the odds? What are you doing here?”

  Anelle looked flustered as she said, “I’m on a mission for the church, but I didn’t expect to see you here in Ingot. I thought you’d be…” She waved vaguely south. “Shall we find somewhere quiet we can talk?”

  “Sure,” Chandor replied. His pleasure at seeing her overrode his momentary concern at her cool greeting “Do you mind if we go past the Mercenaries of Kha lodge first? I want to see if there is a caravan heading to Bronsverj that I can join.”

  She bit her lip and stood staring at him for a moment, still taking in the chain armour, black clothes and the sword at his side. “You’re a mercenary, now?”

  Chandor grinned. “Yeah. And a good one,” he said, pulling up his left bracer to show off his tattoos.

  “You know I planned to be a mercenary until The Cleanser saved me. Then I offered my life to the Gods. I committed to using my talents for good, rather than for money. You did the same.”

  “Don’t be like that, Anelle. I’m doing more good now than I ever would have as a priest. I’m being blessed by the Gods. I’ve already destroyed my first undead!” Chandor’s eyes blazed with excitement.

  Anelle’s heart constricted at the zealous fervour in his voice. It looked like Tribon was right – Chandor was becoming obsessed. “High Priest Hengel has reconsidered,” she blurted, “He’s asked you to come back to Tinsley so he can make you a Guardian.”

  Chandor’s jaw dropped open. “Really? That’s great.”

  “Yes, it’s wonderful,” she grinned. “I’m so happy for you. I know being a Guardian is what you really wanted.”

  Chandor shook his head in amazement. A Guardian! But then his eyes narrowed and he asked, “What about my quest? Will Hengel allow me to hunt the vampire?”

  Anelle swallowed, hard. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Chandor thought of his family. “Revenge is what I really want. The Gods are guiding me to Bronsverj, not Tinsley.”

  “Please, Chandor, you must listen to me. You need to let go of your hatred. You’re choosing your personal desires over serving the Gods.”

  “No, Anelle. The Gods are protecting me. They want me to carry on – to find undead and destroy them. I’m on a holy crusade!”

  “And what are you prepared to sacrifice to complete your quest?”

  “Anything! Everything!” Chandor declared passionately.

  Anelle’s eyes hardened. “You are blinded by revenge. Can’t you see? You are becoming evil, Chandor!”

  “You’re wrong, Anelle. I’m just seeking the justice that the church failed to provide. The Gods are guiding me.”

  “Oh Chandor, you’re being used by evil forces. Tribon’s been having dreams and visions in which you become evil. We’re concerned you might join, or even become, The Painbinder.”

  “Tribon?” Chandor spat. “The Painbinder? I can’t believe that sanctimonious frig has turned you against me.” He squeezed his staff. “I’ll kill him.”

  Anelle’s hand fell to her war hammer. “He and Botha were right, we can’t let you carry on,” she stated, her voice flat.

  Chandor’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Is that what you’re here for? To turn me from my mission?”

  “Yes, those are my orders.” She reached out for his hand, “Chandor –”

  Chandor jerked as if she held a hot poker. “Don’t touch me.” His eyes filled with tears. “I thought you were my friend, but you’re nothing but a traitor. Leave me alone.”

  He turned to go but Anelle grabbed his shoulder. “Chandor, come with me back to the church. As a friend, I can’t let you carry on this path. I’ll use force if necessary. You know I’m the better fighter.”

  Chandor glared at her, his staff clasped tightly in his hand. “Just try it. I’m not the boy who left.”

  Anelle glared back at him. He did look slightly taller and broader. His still-smooth jaw was stronger. Fresh scars on his face proclaimed that he was no stranger to violence and his dark eyes held a steely confidence that hadn’t existed before. She shivered. “You’re being used by dark powers, Chandor. Look at you. All in black, selling your skills for money.” She glanced once more at the sword hanging at his left hip, and then at his chest. “You’ve already reneged on the Weapon Sacrifice, and I see you’ve stopped wearing your Holy Symbol.”

  Chandor touched his chest where the Holy Symbol lay hidden. He realised that he hadn’t taken it out when he pulled on the chain mail, “Anelle, you don’t understand.”

  Before he had a chance to explain, Anelle interrupted. “I understand perfectly, Chandor. You’re obsessed with revenge, and will do anything to gain it. But revenge is evil. I’m here to warn you because I care about the boy I knew.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Where is that boy, Chandor?”

  Chandor stared at her for a long moment, then turned away. “He’s gone. Good riddance to him.” He swung smoothly up into the saddle and nudged Sandy’s flanks, not looking back as he rode away.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have any empty slots. The next caravan to Bronsverj is in five days.”

  “Frig!” Chandor shouted, kicking the desk with his boot.

  The old mercenary behind the counter stood. His face was calm but firm, “Watch it, young man. You know we don’t tolerate behaviour like that.”

  Chandor held up a hand in apology. He gritted his teeth as he struggled to get his emotions under control. “I’m in a hurry to get home to Bronsverj.”

  The grizzled veteran nodded. “I understand. Look, if you’re happy to travel without the pay…”

  Chandor leaned forward.

  “A group of people left this morning. It’s not a caravan, per se, just an assortment of travellers banded together to make the journey safer. A tinker, some musicians, a two-bit trader. They didn’t hire any mercenaries – each one’s looking after themselves – but a group like that is always keen for extra hands. If you hurry you could catch them before nightfall.”

  Chandor nodded. “Thanks.”

  He whirled and strode from the office. Outside, he mounted Sandy and guided her out past the barracks and onto the road to Bronsverj where he pushed her into a canter.

  He rode hard for the next few hours, alternatively trotting and walking Sandy along the winding dirt tracks. The cultivated farmland quickly gave way to a wilderness of rocky hills interspersed with plains of long, golden grass. The road to Bronsverj was not nearly as well used as most he had travelled, and the long grass hung over the sides of the parallel ruts that made up the wagon track.

  Growing up he had always thought of home as the centre of the world. He had been initially stunned by the size of Tinsley and the realisation of how small and remote his home village was. With fewer travellers, hunters and patrols he felt the need to be even more alert than usual, and his view was confirmed when he saw a herd of fire rhinos on a distant hill. They would have been dealt with if they were on the road to Lynmith or Tinsley, he thought, relieved that the bad-tempered creatures were far enough away that he was in no danger of being charged.

  Eventually, he saw the group of travellers a long way ahead. He slowly caught up to them and could make out more and more details. A large, four-wheeled wagon, drawn by oxen, had a slender female guard with a crossbow keeping watch out the back. A flatbed two-wheeler, drawn by a donkey, was piled high with all sorts of junk, on top of which perched a spritely old man. At the front, another four-wheeled wagon was drawn by two large carthorses.

  When he finally got within hailing distance they stopped, but the welcome was far from friendly. A powerfully
built man with a beard of tight black curls, jumped down from the oxen-drawn wagon, his two-handed sword already drawn. Behind him, all the other travellers had weapons in their hands and two crossbows were trained on him. Chandor eased Sandy to a stop and balanced his staff across his knees so he could lift both hands in the air.

  “Don’t come any nearer!” screamed the skinny old man from on top of his two-wheeler. He tried to point a large crossbow in Chandor’s direction but it was clearly too heavy for him and weaved everywhere.

  “Who are you?” called the two-handed sword carrier, the late afternoon sun glinting off his breastplate.

  “I am Chandor, son of Galahan and Elsbith.”

  “Where are you from, and where are you going?”

  “Prove you’re not a werewolf!” shouted a skinny old man.

  “Oh shut up, you imbecile,” called a dark haired lady who had a spear held casually at her side. Next to her stood an equally dark haired man in chain armour, and although he also had a spear, his was gripped tightly with both hands.

  The two-handed swordsman raised an eyebrow and Chandor answered the original question, “I’m a mercenary. Recently from Ingot, Sylverstead and Dragonpeace. I’m returning home to Bronsverj.”

  “Be careful! He could be a doppelganger!” screamed the old man frantically. “Don’t let him near us!”

  The swordsman looked back at the group and gave a jerk of his head. A young woman eased forward. She was warmly dressed in thick boots, grey stockings, long dark grey tunic, a thick woollen scarf, and a fur lined cloak. Both the cloak and tunic had arcane symbols sewn along the edges in white and black.

  “Stay still,” she cautioned Chandor as she used a gloved hand to lift a fist-sized orb from a pouch on her belt. Watching it intently, she edged towards him. The large man moved forward with her protectively, his two-handed sword at the ready. Chandor held his breath. About ten yards from him, she heaved a sigh of relief, and gave him a smile.

  “He’s fine!” she called back over her shoulder.

  The man lowered the heavy blade and the rest of the group, except for the old man, also lowered their weapons, “This lovely lady is Casanath. She can tell without fail if someone is dangerous.”

  “Does that orb allow you to detect evil?” asked Chandor.

  The large man nodded, impressed. “You can’t be too careful on the road. Where did you learn about spells?”

  Chandor’s eyes narrowed. “I served as a novice with the Guardians of Mankind. We were told that when priests with sufficient faith pray, they can miraculously see the presence of evil.”

  Casanath laughed, “Oh, I don’t use prayers. I’m a magician.”

  Chandor felt his back stiffen. The church had instilled a natural distrust of magicians even while acknowledging that some of them were good. He bowed slightly in his saddle in greeting. “Each to their own.”

  “I am Lander,” said the two-handed sword carrier, “Let’s get this circus going and then I’ll introduce you to the others.” He turned and shouted to the others, “Ride on! Life’s passing.”

  The wagons pulled off and soon they were proceeding at a steady walk, with Chandor riding behind the last wagon. Once everything was settled, Lander hopped onto the back step of their wagon and smiled at Chandor. “Myself, Casanath and Gelarey over there are aspiring adventurers. Right now, we’re surviving on the money we earn as travelling entertainers, but we’re hoping to strike it rich soon!” He laughed depreciatively, “It’s a hard but interesting life. What’s your story?”

  “I’m here for safety, not stories,” Chandor snapped.

  “So much for meeting new people. I hope not everyone from Bronsverj is as friendly as you.” He heaved himself up into the wagon. “Give me a shout if you change your mind.”

  Chandor wanted to call out to make amends. He was not hurtful or impolite by nature, but he could not face the thought of sharing his story. Family murdered, rejected by the church, betrayed by my best friend. Nice story. He felt tears sting his eyes. How could Anelle believe that I had been corrupted? She didn’t even give me a chance to explain myself. He touched the place where his Holy Symbol still lay under the chain armour, its physical presence near his heart a reminder of the less tangible presence of the Gods.

  With a frown, he removed the sword from its scabbard and laid it across his lap. The steel blade glinted in the cold sunlight, looking menacing and threatening. Like a snake, still but ready for violence. When Anelle had falsely accused him of reneging on the Weapon Sacrifice it had hurt him deeply, cutting right to the core of his faith. The pain was rapidly hardening into anger. I don’t need her. I don’t need anybody and I won’t be judged by her or the church. The Weapon Sacrifice is between me and the Gods. With an angry shake of his head he slammed the longsword back into its scabbard.

  Towards evening, they came to the top of a rise from which they could see miles in every direction. The first caravan, led by the dark-haired man and women to whom he had been introduced as Kurt and Deborah, pulled to a halt. “I think we should set up camp here for the night,” said the woman.

  “There’s still quite a bit of light. Shouldn’t we press on?” asked Casanath.

  “No. The moon will be almost full tonight. There will be more monsters then usual on the prowl. We need to be settled in advance. We’re stopping here.” With that, she jumped off her wagon and started to unpack while Kurt began to unhitch their horses.

  With some shrugs and grumbling, the rest of the travellers also began to get settled for the night. The wagons and carts were drawn into rough circle, although there were large spaces because there were not enough to encircle the animals and people. A large fire was made in the centre. After dinner, Lander, Gelarey and Casanath helped pass the time by telling stories and jokes, singing and playing their instruments.

  The night was clear and cold, the surroundings covered in silver blue light. Chandor lay on his back with his cloak wrapped tightly around him. Despite the comfort of the travel mattress and having removed his chain mail, he was still unable to sleep. He kept thinking about his meeting with Anelle. Could his quest for revenge be evil? Was he being used by The Adversary?

  Suddenly, a trumpet blast interrupted his thoughts.

  “To arms! Get up!” came the cry from the far end of the camp.

  Scooping up his staff Chandor rushed to the wagon from which the shout had come. Lander was standing on the runner boards of his caravan, trumpet in one hand, two-handed sword in the other. His voice bellowed over the noise of the rising camp, “Bring fire; make noise! There’s a cracker approaching the camp.”

  Chandor’s eyes followed the pointing finger. Twenty yards away a monstrous beetle, the size of a horse, was facing the caravans. It had a gleaming black and yellow carapace that looked more impenetrable than a fine suit of armour. Its plated head had jointed feelers and oversized mandibles that looked like two black, jagged scythes. The head swept backwards and forwards as if searching for something. The beetle’s squat body exuded power and Chandor shuddered, imagining how powerful it must be.

  The others arrived moments later, carrying weapons, instruments and torches.

  “A cracker beetle,” marvelled Casanath. “I’ve read that one of those things can pick up a wagon. Like ordinary beetles, they can lift many times their body weight. Its mandibles will slice you in half if it gets hold of you. Lander’s right, we don’t want to fight it. We must scare it away!”

  “Make noise, clap your hands, shout your hearts out,” urged Lander.

  The entertainers started making as much noise as they could. Casanath clapped her tambourine and shouted, Lander blew loudly on his trumpet while Gelarey hammered her drum. Chandor and the others joined in. They shouted at the top of their voices as if they were at a jousting tournament.

  The beetle was obviously unsettled by the noise. It swung its head from left to right, as if trying to decide what to do.

  Shouting, “Eat this!” the skinny old man staggered f
orward and fired off his crossbow. Somehow his aim was true and the bolt streaked straight for the beetle. The bolt passed the oversized mandibles and carried on towards the head. It bounced harmlessly off the creature’s smooth armour and spun off crazily into the night without even leaving a scratch.

  The beetled paused. Ominously, it started to open its gigantic mandibles. Further and further they parted until a man could stand between them with his arms stretched and not touch either one. Crack! The beetle slammed the perfectly interlocking serrated edges together, creating sound wave that would carry miles.

  Chandor could feel the ripple of fear run through the companions as each person realised that the beetle could easily cleave them in half. They all edge backwards. The noise dropped. Feelers twitching, the beetle stepped towards them. All movement ceased in the sudden silence.

  Trembling, Chandor reached surreptitiously for the comfort of his Holy Symbol, breathing out softly as he felt the reassuring lump under his tunic. Words from the Sacred Texts drifted into his mind as clearly as if someone were speaking to him, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”

  Chandor clenched his jaw, I do have faith. Slowly he reached under his collar and found the chain on which his Symbol hung and lifted it over his head, pulling the Holy Symbol from under his tunic.

  Under his breath, he started to pray for courage. “The Gods are with me wherever I walk. I will not fear evil.”

  He gripped the Symbol tightly and said, “Otec is my light and my salvation. Why should I fear? Takatifu Roho is the fortress of my life. Why should I be afraid?”

  His skin tingled and he felt the power of the Gods flowing through him. Stepping forward, he thrust his staff towards the Cracker beetle declaring loudly, “The Gods did not give us hearts of fear; but of power!”