Dark Priest Page 18

  “I wish Jurgen was here,” mumbled Eben, his shoulders slumped in resignation. “We need his wisdom. I’m sure he would support me in suggesting prudence and care.”

  Hengel shook his head slowly, “Guide Eben, you know I appreciate your input, but in this instance I disagree. We cannot be afraid! We must act in faith, and trust that we are doing the right thing.”

  Eben turned away, his face troubled. The others looked at Hengel expectantly.

  “Botha, I want you to ride for Bronsverj. Take four experienced Guardians, fully armoured. Go now and prepare the men. I’ll get a warrant to confirm and authorise your instructions.”

  The powerful fighter patted the handle of his glowing war hammer as he bowed, “For the good of mankind!”

  “Let me join you on this quest, Sir Botha,” begged Tribon.

  “I’m afraid not, Tribon,” Hengel cut in quickly. “Nor you, Anelle. Not only is this too dangerous for new Guardians, but you are both conflicted in this. It would not be right.”

  Tribon gritted his teeth, but dipped his head obediently. Anelle bowed deeply, not trying to hide her relief.

  “Go now, all of you. Pray for Botha’s mission, and for Chandor. He needs the Gods now more than ever.”

  The scribe nodded briefly as he entered Hengel’s office, his round face flushed as he tried to catch his breath. Without asking, he leaned his easel against the wall by the door. He placed the wooden box that had been under the other arm on Hengel’s desk. He sat heavily in the chair opposite the High Priest.

  “Baron Tinsley said I should come immediately. He said to tell you that he understands the situation and has given his approval.”

  The scribe cleared a space on Hengel’s desk without asking and was too busy opening his box to see Hengel’s raised eyebrow. After removing a sheet of parchment and spreading it on the desk, he selected a stick of coal with his fat fingers. Then he looked up at the High Priest expectantly, “What have you got for me?”

  Hegel rubbed his temples as he said, “One of our novices, Chandor of Bronsverj, has been corrupted. He was trained as both a Guide and a Guardian, but was not selected to work for the church. He is now working as a mercenary adventurer.”

  The scribe nodded and scribbled notes in the top right corner of the page as the High Priest continued, “We need to circulate some Wanted posters in Bronsverj and the nearby towns for his immediate capture. He should be considered armed and dangerous. Even more importantly, he is able to perform defiled miracles. He is a fanatic.”

  “Excellent, excellent,” encouraged the scribe, smiling broadly at the picture he was forming in his mind. “Do you have a description?”

  Hengel handed over a framed painting of Chandor’s class, done the week before graduation. “Bottom row, second from the right. He wears black now, rather white.”

  “Fantastic!” The scribe’s fingers flash and within moments he had captured a good likeness of Chandor’s face. He shook his head and used his thumb to smudge one or two of the lines, muttering, “Lovely. Young but brooding. That dark hair and dark eyes will work beautifully.” A few more touches with his coal had given Chandor a sinister air. “This is just a quick mock up, I’ll perfect it tonight.” He gazed at the page thoughtfully, and said, “We need a good name.”

  “His name is Chandor.”

  “No, no. The posters are much more effective if you have a good nickname. You know, “The Cleanser” or “Ngrangor Bothbreaker” or “Lady ‘Giantkiller’ West”. How about Chandor the Black.”

  “The Black Guardian perhaps?” offered Hengel.

  “Mmm, not quite. Blasphemous Chandor?”

  “Priest of Evil…”

  “Or ‘The Black Priest’. Wait, I’ve got it.” His fingers flashed as he wrote, adding in words and details.

  “Do I need to sign?” asked Hengel.

  A short shake of the head made the scribes cheeks wobble, “Nah, I can do your signature, easy.” He sketched, added some more wording and shading, then held it up for inspection. The likeness of Chandor was perfect, the wording chilling.

  “If you’re happy with this I’ll make twenty copies and give them to Sir Botha to distribute in the nearby towns.”

  Hengel sighed. “Yes. That is what is needed.” He struggled to pull his eyes from the top where it proclaimed boldly, “Wanted: Dead or Alive. Chandor the Dark Priest.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Following the Lead

  Chandor stood on the village walls watching the distant lightning flash across the night sky. The thunderstorm would soon hit Bronsverj, forcing him inside, but he planned to remain on the battlements for as long as possible to witness the power of the Gods.

  He found that the wind, the cold air, and the space allowed him to think. He was sure that if he could get to Copperstead he would be able to find the person who had agreed to supply equipment to the vampire. Then he could follow one of the wagons to its destination. He did not yet have a plan for dealing with the vampire once he tracked it down. It had already killed seasoned adventurers and powerful priests so he was under no illusions about how difficult it would be to defeat. One step at a time. First, I must get to Copperstead.

  “Actually, I first need a new weapon,” he mused. His smashed staff was in the hippogriff lair, and he knew now that he would never use an edged weapon. I choose the Weapon Sacrifice for myself as a reminder and a declaration of my trust in the Gods.

  “I should be able to trade the sword for a mace, and hopefully even have some change. Then I’ll see how to get myself all the way to Copperstead.”

  His contemplation was interrupted by an approaching figure. It was Captain Erika, dressed in her blue and gold uniform, cloak pulled close against the cold. Chandor had always thought it a very professional outfit. She carried a crossbow comfortably over her shoulder, her broadsword was strapped across her back, the crossbow bolts at her left hip.

  “Chandor, what a coincidence! I was going to come and find you after my shift. Will you walk with me as I patrol?”

  Chandor nodded.

  “Mayor Bronsverj has tasked me with the creation of a new trade route. It is something the village has wanted to do for some time now to improve our economy. I secured funds to hire adventurers to supplement the village guard and we’ve been waiting until we had enough help to make it viable. Our task will be to find a wagon friendly route and clear it of threats.”

  “Where will the trade route run?”

  “From here to Copperstead.”

  Chandor snorted softly. Truly, my prayers are answered. I am blessed by the Gods. He looked out to the horizon, wondering how far to push his luck, “Will you pay usual mercenary rates?”

  “No, adventuring fees are the norm for this kind of job.”

  “How does that work?” asked Chandor.

  “Well, mercenaries typically get paid by the day. Adventurers get paid for the completion of quests. In this case, you’ll travel to Copperstead, mapping the trail and killing any dangerous wildlife, and then return protecting a caravan. There is a chest of silver to be split between the participants – probably five village soldiers and six adventurers, so that works out at about two gold each for what should be about two week’s work, assuming we succeed. Adventurers don’t get paid if they don’t succeed, but they do get to share in any spoils of war.”

  Chandor nodded, based on his mercenary experience the pay sounded reasonable. “I’m interested but have two conditions. I’ll join you to Copperstead, but probably won’t return...”

  “Ok, we’ll probably be able to find someone there who is willing to take your place on the return trip. We’ll have to think about how you get paid but I’m sure we can find some solution. What’s the other condition?”

  “I need to borrow a shield.”

  Erika laughed. “Sensible. I wouldn’t normally allow it, but since you’re a local lad I’m happy to make an exception.”

  “You mentioned six adventurers?”

  “Lander,
Gelarey, Casanath, Kurt and Deborah. Plus yourself, makes six.”

  Chandor nodded, pleased to be travelling with the others again. “When do we leave?”

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  Chandor spent the following day preparing for the journey. He started by visiting the barracks to collect a shield from the armoury. Chandor had been trained by the Guardians of Mankind to use most shield types, from the small square buckler to the largest rectangular body shields. He selected a typical modern Vander shield, a simple steel rectangle just wider than his forearm and long enough to cover him from shoulder to hips. He tightened the forearm strap and hand straps, then swung it experimentally. It felt slightly lighter than the one he had used at the Cathedral Church in Tinsley, but as he ran through a variety of blocks and punches, he felt increasingly comfortable that he could make up in speed what he lost in weight.

  His next stop was the blacksmith where looked to trade his longsword.

  “There’s not much call for maces here, Chandor,” said the smith honestly. “The soldiers all use swords so I don’t have much selection. I only have this old one available.”

  Chandor frowned as he tried to not to appear too excited. The mace was just about perfect, with an all metal handle and shaft ending in a seven-flanged head. Although the balance was slightly off to his mind, being heavier at the head than he preferred, the length was good, reaching from the ground to his knee.

  “I can give you six gold for the sword. The mace will cost you five.”

  Chandor nodded. The smith was well known for trading fairly and not bargaining so he handed over the sword and gladly took the mace and gold piece.

  His final step was to purchase food for the journey since adventurers’ meals were not provided, unlike when he travelled as a mercenary.

  He spent the afternoon and early evening at the graveyard, sitting by the cairns of his family. I will avenge you, he promised.

  Their departure early the next morning felt very different from any of his other trips. The families of the five soldiers were all there to see them off, as was the mayor and a small crowd of interested people. My family would be here, he thought, and if they were, this would still be home. He felt his jaw clench. The undead have seen to it that I have no home, only a purpose.

  The other thing that made the departure seem different was that Chandor felt properly prepared for the first time. With chain mail, shield, mace, food in his saddle bags and warm clothes he was in a very different situation than when he had fled Tinsley.

  He nudged Sandy into a trot and moved to the front of the caravan as it left Bronsverj behind.

  “I’ll ride point with you,” Chandor offered, as he pulled alongside Captain Erika.

  “Thanks. We’ll follow the old hunters’ trail to the canyon, but from there we’ll need to find our own path that the wagons can use. It’s going to be slow going.”

  Chandor nodded. There were three wagons, one for the soldiers, the one belonging to the adventurer entertainers, and finally Kurt and Deborah’s wagon.

  They progressed smoothly, although the road soon petered out and the hunters’ footpath did little to help the wagons that bumped and creaked over stones and grass. Chandor was grateful that he was riding rather than doing the manual labour required to get the wagons across the unchartered terrain. To his surprise, the adventurers and soldiers all seemed to relish the challenge. They laughed and chatted as they lifted, pushed and pulled for every mile. By nightfall, they had made it to the canyon. Chandor sighed as he looked up and down. The path headed down, easy enough on foot, possible on horseback, but impossible for a wagon. Itching to reach Copperstead, he wished for a huge bridge like Shalandra’s Way.

  They made camp, using the wagons to make a perimeter surrounding the cooking fire and the animals. After dinner, while the others talked and laughed, Chandor withdrew to the shadows and gazed outwards. He brooded until he was called to draw lots for watches and then turned in. Despite his pallet, warm clothes and thick cloak, the ground was cold even close to the fire, and Chandor felt a twinge of envy for those that had wagons to sleep in. When his nightmares woke him, he relieved Kurt from his watch.

  The sun eventually rose and he practiced with his shield and mace until the camp awakened, withdrawing for his meditation when his watch was over. I must buy myself some of the Sacred Texts, he thought, as he found himself struggling to remember the exact wording of some of the prayers and passages. He hadn’t realised how much wisdom he found in the various holy writings, but now found himself longing for the words inspired by the Gods.

  The next day was largely uneventful. They travelled downriver following the edge of the canyon while they looked for a place to descend. They eventually found the place the trappers had described. The canyon wall had collapsed and they could pick their way over loose rubble down to the canyon floor. They tied red ribbons to nearby bushes to mark the spot so that they could find the place easily on the way back.

  Down the centre of the wide-bottomed gorge, the Lower Ando frothed over boulders and churned with white water. It was hundreds of yards wide in some places, just ten or twenty in others. How we will cross this with neither a bridge nor a ferry, I do not know.

  They made their way down to the water’s edge. The water was just above freezing, and chunks of ice could sometimes be seen bobbing in the current. They found a pool where they could water the animals.

  Erika called for them to set up camp despite the early hour, explaining that they needed to dig in for the night. “Tomorrow, we will leave the wagons here and send scouting parties up and down the river to find a place to cross.”

  As evening approached, Chandor eyed the pool longingly. He was filthy. It was almost a month since he had last bathed. That was not unusual for most Vanders, but at the Cathedral Church in Tinsley he had got used to a warm bath every day. “Clean the body, clean the soul,” one of the priests used to say as they performed the daily purification ceremony.

  Chandor felt unclean, both physically and spiritually.

  He moved a little upstream from the camp and stripped. The air was cold and made goose bumps rise all over his lean body. He shivered as he eyed the frigid water. It would be so good to be clean! He stuck his hands in the icy water and it stung.

  Steeling himself, he splashed the freezing water over his face and gasped as it took his breath away.

  Could I pray for miraculous protection from the cold? The Sacred Texts told of great prophets who could survive extreme conditions by focusing on the Gods. There were tales of priests that had ventured forth in icy blizzards to perform miraculous rescues using their faith to ward them from the cold. Compared with those noble deeds it felt almost sacrilegious to pray for a miracle just for a bath. It is not just a bath. I’ll perform the purification ceremony at the same time. Chandor stared at the icy water longingly. He knelt on the sandy bank and prayed to the Gods, asking if it was appropriate to desire their protection from the cold. No answer was forthcoming so he made up his mind.

  Lifting his face and both hands to the heavens he said, “The Gods say to the snow, ‘Fall on the earth,’ and to the rain, ‘Be a mighty downpour.’ The breath of Otec produces ice, and He scatters his lightning through the clouds.”

  He felt the power of Takatifu Roho build inside him and knew without doubt that his prayers would be answered. Scooping a handful of water from the river he intoned, “If you are willing, you can keep me warm.”

  He seemed to feel the touch of a hand on his shoulder, and in the depths of his heart the voice of Notomok whispered, “I am willing.”

  Suddenly, the cold air no longer bothered him. He put his foot into the pool, and the water felt lukewarm to the touch. He heaved a sigh of pleasure. He waded forward and was surprised when he didn’t even gasp when it reached his stomach. He sank down, dipping his head under the surface. Thank you Otec! It is so good to be clean! Use this time to purify my mind and spirit.

  He grabbed a handful of sand from
the bottom of the pool and used it to scrub himself. He rinsed his hair as thoroughly as possible before wading to the shallows where he went through the purification ritual. Eventually, clean both inside and out, he stepped from the water. He dried, dressed and returned to the camp feeling closer to the Gods than ever.

  The next morning Chandor, Erika and Viktor rode downstream. They were looking for the place where the river became wide and shallow, where they should be able to ford in relative safety. Another search party had headed upstream, while a last group remained behind to guard the wagons.

  They picked their way carefully and slowly along the northern bank. After seeing shiver crocodiles sunning themselves on the sand they kept well away from the water’s edge. Once they were aware of the large magical predators, they started to watch closely for them. Then they noticed that many lay submerged with just their nostrils and eyes above the water. Their silver colouring made them difficult to spot even in the crystal-clear water. Chandor swallowed hard and lifted a silent prayer of thanks to the Gods for protecting him while he went for his naïve bath.

  Before midday, they found a broad set of cascades where the river widened and slowed before foaming down a series of rocks. Sandy bottomed pools, most only one or two feet deep stretched from side to side.

  “The wagons should be able to cross here,” Erika mused.

  “What about shiver crocs?” asked Viktor, voicing the concern in Chandor’s mind.

  “There aren’t as many here as there were upstream, but we’ll drive those that are here off with our crossbows.”

  “Mind if I test that theory?” asked Viktor with a grin. When Erika nodded, he lifted his crossbow and took aim, sighting on a smaller one which was lying out of the water. His bolt thudded into its side, piercing the softer white belly skin. In a flash, the reptile was off the bank and disappeared into the water.