Dark Priest Read online

  Chandor stepped from the church into the bright sunlight of a crisp winter afternoon. Birds sang. The breeze carried the smell of apples and wood smoke. It felt surreal. He stood on the Cathedral steps, momentarily at a loss, and searched the sky. He blinked the last tears from his eyes and then suddenly anger hit him like a hammer. He ran down the steps, his jaw clenched. The grey stone walls, which in the past had always been a symbol of sanctuary to him, now looked like a prison.

  He ran for the stables and went straight to his mare, Sandy. She was a mild mannered old farm horse, hardly suitable for battle, but she had been his parents’ horse and he loved her dearly. He had practiced fighting on one of the church’s warhorses but although she was not as fast as a riding horse he rode her whenever he could. He quickly saddled her, swung up and guided her out of the stables, eager to be away before he encountered anyone. Unfortunately, the sending ceremony was over and people were pouring from the Cathedral. Chandor turned his head away, not wanting to see or be seen, but Tribon was suddenly in his path.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Good, I always thought you were flaky.” He looked Chandor over as if seeking something wrong. Suddenly he smiled, reached up and grabbed a fistful of Chandor’s thick white cloak. “You don’t deserve to wear this!”

  “You’re right,” Chandor snarled, “You and the church deserve each other.” He undid the clasp, shrugged out of the thick white cloak and flung it to the floor at Tribon’s feet, “I deserve more.”

  He urged Sandy into a trot towards the Barrier Gateway, the only entrance to the Cathedral Castle. There were no guards at the open gate, a powerful reminder to all of the miraculous powers that protected the grounds, and Chandor felt a moment of anxiety as he wondered if the warding would trigger as he rode through. He passed safely and suddenly found himself outside of the church grounds.

  Without reining in, he looked back over his shoulder at the graceful glass spires of the cathedral and the looming stone keep that had been his home for the past four years. Then he touched his heels to Sandy’s flanks.

  The Cathedral Castle sat squarely in the centre of Tinsley, dominating the skyline of the town that sprawled around it in all directions. Due to the endless throngs of people Church Street, Market Street and Old Main Square were some of the slowest roads in the city. Chandor had just started to make headway when a wagon pulled across the road and forced him to stop abruptly.

  “Get out the way!” he yelled, earning a grumble from the wagon driver. Chandor squeezed past and rode on, alternatively walking and trotting, feeling more frustrated with every passing moment. He felt desperate to be out of Tinsley and away from the dominating spires of his past.

  Tinsley was a large town, with over ten thousand inhabitants, and it took almost a quarter of an hour to make it to the North Gate, during which time he brooded and fumed. He finally joined the queue of people leaving through the main gate, fidgeting as he waited. They can’t stop me leaving. I’ll ride right through them if I have to, he thought. But his fears proved unfounded and the guards cast a perfunctory eye over him before waving him through without a second glance. He passed through the gates and immediately pushed Sandy into a canter so that they were soon flying down the well-maintained road.

  A complex storm of emotions drove him onwards. At its heart was the long-held fury with the Gods for allowing his family to be murdered. Boiling around that was his anger with the church for failing to bring the killer to justice and for refusing to ordain him. Finally, crackling around the edges of inner conflict like crazy lightning bolts was the frustration and guilt at his own impotence.

  Chandor clattered past slow moving wagons and people on foot, and saw a clear road ahead of him. He leaned forward and urged Sandy on, feeling her stretch into a full gallop. The whipping wind brought tears to his eyes as the road flashed past underneath him and slowly he felt as though a weight were lifting from his shoulders. Sandy soon slowed back down to a more sustainable canter, and Chandor relaxed as he felt peace wash over him. He let himself forget everything else for a while, and savoured the experience; the warm sunlight on his face, the crisp clean air, golden fields stretched out in both directions, while next to the road the fence posts slipped by.

  The moments stretched into minutes, and he lost all sense of time as Sandy slowed from a canter to a trot and eventually a walk.

  “Good girl,” he murmured eventually, leaning forward and patting her lathered neck. He breathed deeply and looked around. The ordered fields had given way to natural grasses, and there were no longer fences alongside the road. He twisted in the saddle but could no longer see Tinsley in the distance and he nodded in satisfaction.

  Feeling calmer, Chandor sat back in the saddle and let Sandy plod at her own pace as he reflected on his emotions. He realised that the sending had been the final act of betrayal. Over the past four years, he had been made to feel like he had a purpose, that he was being prepared to play a role for the Gods. He had just recently started to feel that perhaps the death of his parents would have meaning. Although he recognised that it was possible that his parent’s killer could not be found and the murder would remain unsolved, there were other undead abominations in the world, plaguing mankind and ruining more lives. Skeletons and zombies, ghouls, wraiths, spectres and vampires were all creatures created by dead souls returning from the afterlife through an unholy portal.

  I could have made a difference! With practice my fighting and faith could have become weapons for the Gods against the evil of the undead. Being packed off as a mayor’s apprentice is the worst possible insult to my faith and my past. His mouth set in a hard line as he examined his anger towards the Gods and the church and found it justified.

  He crested a rise and unexpectedly saw the gleaming white arches of Shalandra’s Way, the huge bridge that spanned the Lower Ando River. The architectural feat took his breath away and wonder replaced his grumbling as the road snaked down to reveal the deep gorge cut by the Ando. Late afternoon sun cast the far side in shadow while the dazzling bridge stood out in stark contrast to the dark rock of the gorge. The graceful arch spanned hundreds of feet, soaring across the canyon and rushing river far below.

  A large stone obelisk had been erected to the left of the road with a brass plaque that read:

  Shalandra’s Way.

  This bridge was created by magic by the mage Shalandra, High Wizard of Tinsley. It was opened for the free use of all Fistorians on this, the 18th day of June, AL520. On behalf of the people of Vander, we offer our humble gratitude for this selfless gift.

  Signed

  The duke of Vander.

  Chandor had crossed it before, four years prior when the priests took him to Tinsley after the murder of his parents. But he didn’t remember it at all. He gazed ahead, awed by the bridge’s immense construction and the sheer scale and magnitude of the vision. He could understand why people made trips just to see it. The bridge was wider than the road on which he had been travelling, broad enough for two wagons to pass side by side. Its high sides meant that Sandy showed no reluctance in stepping onto it. Her iron-shod hooves rang out clearly over the roar of the Ando river which drifted up to him from far below.

  Cold wind plucked at his hair as they made their way out onto the bridge. From this vantage point, Chandor could see up and down the deep canyon that contained the Ando River. The size of the canyon and the bridge made him feel very small and he suddenly wished that Anelle was with him. He touched his Holy Symbol and then spurred Sandy into a canter, crossing the rest of the bridge in a rush, not even pausing to look up and down the gorge from the centre viewpoint.

  At the far side, another obelisk bore the same inscription, as well as three distance markers.

  Langstund: 41 miles

  Lynmith: 38 miles

  Junction: 16 miles.

  On the reverse side, an arrow pointed back the way he had come and declared:

  Tinsl
ey: 8 miles

  The distances shocked him. It was still a long ride before he reached the safety of Junction, the fortified camp where the road forked to Langstund and Lynmith and the caravans stayed overnight.

  The sun was low in the sky, and he looked back the way he had come uncertainly. The sky was still blue, but it would soon be evening and he didn’t want to be out in the wild after dark. He belatedly realised why the road had been so quiet – other traffic had left earlier to ensure that they reached the waypoint before sunset.

  It was unlikely that there would be intelligent monsters so close to civilisation, but there were plenty of wild animals that could bring down a single man, and he didn’t even have a weapon or armour. He shuddered as he thought of the carcasses of giant insects and predators that were sometimes brought into town by adventurers. While the king’s soldiers would have driven any ogres or dragons from the lands, there were definitely snakes and great lizards, wolves and large cats. He looked around fearfully, realising how foolish he had been to be travelling on his own in the first place. Even the swaying grass now seemed to have an ominous edge.

  Chandor looked at the signpost and the distance to Tinsley and shook his head. I can’t go back. He pulled Sandy in a tight circle, and glanced at the distance markers again. Sixteen miles, he thought, if I ride hard, I might be able to make it to Junction before nightfall. He flicked his reins and urged Sandy to a trot, leaving Shalandra’s Way and the Ando river behind him.

  He had known it was wishful thinking, but sunset still came sooner than expected. The sun sank, casting the horizon in a red blaze of colour and tingeing the clouds in pink. He turned for his saddle bags then realised with a sinking heart that he hadn’t packed anything; No flint, torch or lantern, no sleeping sack, not even a cloak or water bottle.

  “Kraaak!” he screamed at the sky. He punched his thigh in frustration. “How could I be so stupid”

  He looked around in the dying light, wondering if he could find materials to make a fire. He was about to dismount when the booming clicks of a cracker beetle in the distance made the hairs stand up on his neck. He realised for the first time that he could be in real danger. The seven-foot cracker beetles had ferocious mandibles that could slice right through the bones of a man’s arm. Panicked, Chandor nudged Sandy back into a fast trot.

  A cool evening breeze came up. It cut through his tabard and under-tunic, chilling his back. He longed for the warmth of his thick, white Church of Mankind cloak. He growled in exasperation, but there was nothing he could do. A verse from the Book of Wisdom leapt to mind unbidden, “For the waywardness of the simple will kill them, and the complacency of fools will destroy them.”

  Above him, the sky turned from indigo to black, and the first stars appeared. The moon, low over the horizon and a few days past full, painted the road and grass in shades of grey. Everything beyond a few yards was a shadowed silhouette. He peered into to the darkness. His heart beat fast as he gripping the reins tightly. His head swept from side to side, constantly searching the long grass, boulders and trees for signs of danger.

  A rustle in the bushes nearby startled both him and Sandy, and he pushed her into a canter thinking, Maybe over the next rise I’ll see the lights of the Junction, but she was tired and soon dropped back to a plodding walk. It seemed an age before he crested the rise, and his heart despaired as he was greeted by endless blackness as far as his eye could see in every direction. He was completely and utterly alone, like the last nugget of gold at the bottom of an abandoned mine.

  Tears started to leak from his eyes. Out of habit, he reached up and grasped his Holy Symbol. It had been such a source of comfort for him in the past, but now it seemed hollow, as if the Gods had deserted him. He looked up at the brilliant heavens above and wondered if the Gods really existed. Perhaps the Gods are just a childish illusion, a myth to keep people good and give them something to hope and believe. His teeth chattered as a gust of wind whipped away his body heat. He leaned forward and hugged Sandy’s neck awkwardly, suddenly so tired he didn’t know what to do with himself.

  He curled forward as much as his saddle allowed and shut his eyes, trusting that Sandy would continue to walk along the road. If I’m attacked, I’ll deal with it when it happens, he thought wearily, and within moments he was asleep.

  In his dream he was falling, the floor of the Ando canyon rushing up to meet him. He awoke a moment before his face hit the ground but not soon enough to brace his fall from the saddle. Pain exploded from his shoulder and the impact knocked the wind from his body. Disoriented, he rolled into the foetal position, putting his hands over his head and winced in anticipation of an attack. When none was forthcoming, he carefully opened his eyes. He groaned and rolled onto his back. Sandy stood half over him, and above her the night sky was as brilliant as ever. He could taste blood, and he winced as his tongue found a cut on his lip. He got up slowly, aching both from stiffness and the fall. His hands were numb from the cold and his teeth chattered uncontrollably.

  He leaned heavily against the saddle and tried to drag himself up, but his Holy Symbol caught on the leather and jerked him to a halt. His momentum lost and his foot hooked in his stirrup, he fell heavily back to the ground. He lay on the ground for a moment, then pushed himself angrily to his feet. He tore the Holy Symbol from around his neck and flung it back the way he had come as hard as he could. The spinning Godstar glinted briefly for a moment as it flew through the air, before being swallowed up by the darkness. Crying tears of frustration and pain, Chandor swung up into the saddle and kicked Sandy’s sides. The night remained still except for the usual sounds of insects and birds, and the whisper of icy north wind through the grass.

  As he crested the next rise he saw a glimmer of light in the distance. It stood out clearly against the otherwise black surroundings. It was three more hills before he saw the wooden palisade of the Junction. By the time he finally arrived his body was frozen and sore, his mind exhausted.

  Sandy plodded wearily into the pool of light cast by the Junction guards’ torches, causing an exclamation of surprise and alarm.

  “What the heck!”

  “Good Gods, it’s a boy.”

  “A priest.”

  “Quick open the gates.”

  “No! Don’t! It may be an ambush. A trap.”

  Chandor sat wearily on his horse, knowing he had finally made it to safety, but almost too tired to care. A shout came down from the wooden rampart, “Boy! Who are you?”

  Chandor forced himself to lift his head and open his eyes. “Chandor. From Tinsley.”

  “What happened?” demanded a guard, peering forward with his lantern held high. “Were you attacked? Ambushed by brigands or monsters?”

  The other’s look was suspicious, and he pointed his crossbow menacingly at Chandor, “Where is your party?”

  “I’m alone. I left too late.”

  “Did the spider attack you?”

  “What spider?”

  The guards looked at each other. “Dragon’s teeth! What a fool. It’s a miracle he’s made it here.”

  “What happened to your face?”

  “I fell asleep. Fell off my horse.” Chandor was too tired to be embarrassed.

  “Let him in,” said the first guard. “He needs to get next to the fire. He’s half frozen. Look, his lips are blue.”

  “He could be a doppelganger. Maybe he’s sick, bitten by something.”

  “I’m the senior guard here and I say open the damn gate.”

  With much reluctance, the crossbow guard disappeared off the wall, and a few moments later Chandor heard bars being lifted. The gate opened a crack and Chandor caught a welcoming glimpse of a fire.

  “Off your horse. Hands where I can see them.”

  Chandor clambered from the saddle and led Sandy in past the watchful eyes of the guards. As soon as he was in, the gate was closed and barred again.

  “Give me your cup and I’ll get you some tea,” suggested the older guard.


  “I don’t have a cup.”

  “Frig, boy.” The guard shook his head. “Let me take the reins. You take a seat next to the fire. I’ll see to your mount and find you something hot.”

  The guard disappeared and returned shortly, but by that time, Chandor was fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 3

  Treachery in the Night

  Nuan stood completely at ease, alone, in the dark wilderness of Fistoria. He had grown his hair and dyed it black so he could travel the Vander Duchy without drawing attention to himself. Apart from his skin being paler than it had been, he looked much as he had when alive. His lean swordsman’s body provided no hint of the supernatural speed and power it housed, while the abnormal length of his canines could only be seen if he opened his mouth too widely. As the emperor of Athalan had promised, Nuan had not aged in the five years since he had been raised from the dead as a vampire. Although he still bore scars from before his death, every new wound had soon healed completely.

  The night’s mission had forced him to forgo his usual burgundy and gold colours, heraldic crest and distinctive gold-hilted rapier. Instead he wore a green tunic trimmed with silver. An ordinary Vander longsword hung in the leather scabbard at his left hip. Wool-lined brown leather gloves, bracers, boots and cloak completed the disguise of a wealthy envoy.

  Unaffected by the chilly breeze, he smiled to himself as he drank in the smell of the grass, the trees, and the life which he could sense flowing all around him. The lights of Lamar Hold could be seen far to the north. Up above, the moon provided enough light for hunting. His keen ears noted the distant approach of horses. His nostrils flared in anticipation.

  While he waited, a fist-sized beetle crawled out of the grass onto the road at his feet. His pale blue eyes followed it intently. He drew the longsword to track the beetle with its tip. When it was halfway across the road, Nuan slowly pushed down, pinning the creature. He watched sadistically as its legs kicked, furiously struggling to escape. Slowly he pushed his blade into its carapace. The beetle’s shell cracked, but it did not die. Nuan inhaled deeply, savouring the tiny pulse of life as it flowed up his blade and under his fingernails. He added more weight, and sighed in pleasure as the little creature died. It is so good to be powerful, he reflected, and to think that once I was once a mere human weakling. He flicked the beetle’s carcass into the grass next to the road with a twist of his wrist. Looking up the road, he licked the tip of the blade, before running it smoothly back into its scabbard. Showtime, he thought, as the horsemen crested the rise.