Dark Priest Page 6

  Chandor warred with his soul. He didn’t particularly want to acknowledge that he had trained with the Church of Mankind, and he especially didn’t want to face any questions. However, he really needed the job.

  “I spent two years training with the Guides, and another two with the Guardians of Mankind.”

  “Oh, excellent!” she smiled encouragingly. “They are well known for their training. Do you have your own armour and weapons?”

  “Just a staff.”

  She made a tick. “Any special skills you want to mention?”

  “I’ve been trained in basic healing.”

  “Good.” She made another tick. “Do you have a mount?”

  “Yes.”

  “War horse, riding horse, or other?”

  “A draft horse.”

  A final tick. “Any other considerations?”

  “No.”

  She ran through the list and checked it against a table. “Good news. We have a route open. I can offer one gold per week. If you join now, you get supper, and a bed. Food and stables for your horse overnight. You will leave first thing tomorrow morning for Dor-Roc-Gan.”

  “Where?”

  The lady showed him on the map behind her.

  “But that’s miles away! It’s not even in Fistoria. I need to go to Ingot and then to Bronsverj.”

  The woman laughed. “Boy, you're not qualified enough to be picky. This route is open because it is more risky. At the end, you’ll get a rating chit. Keep it, next time you sign up, you can get better pay and more choice in your route. The better you perform in terms of helpfulness, bravery, and useful skills, the higher your rating and the more valuable you become as a merc. After that, people will be more willing to take you on. Top mercs can get paid quite well, although you must continue taking the dangerous routes to make the real gold. Are you in?”

  Desperate for food, and knowing that he needed to stable and feed Sandy, Chandor nodded.

  “Fill in your name here at the top. Read the oath and sign at the bottom.”

  Chandor read it. He was signing his life away until Dor-Roc-Gan.

  Frig!

  He let out a deep sigh and made his mark anyway.

  “Just so you know,” she said as she led him through to the dining room, “The squad will be led by a Nombu. His name is Matwau and he is a typical stinking barbarian. He’s a good enough fighter and leader that he always has work. He’s travelled far, so the traders often ask for him if they’re going beyond the border. He’s the merc boss on this trip, so you have to listen to him, okay?”

  Chandor shrugged, “I’ll do what I have to do.”

  She introduced him to Fourie and Gerhard, two mercenaries who would be on the route with him. They were typical Vander fighters, heavy set and powerfully built. While Fourie looked stern with his square-cut brown beard and long brown hair in a ponytail, the humorous twinkle in Gerhard's eye was echoed by thick black moustaches, a mop of curly hair and a set of bushy black eyebrows that met in the middle.

  They showed Chandor to the stable and helped him find the grooming gear, then left him with instructions to join them in the canteen when he had finished settling Sandy. Despite his grumbling stomach, he brushed Sandy down and ensured she was properly watered and fed before hurrying to get his own dinner.

  Gerhard and Fourie were still the only ones in the canteen when he arrived. “Help yourself to a couple of skewers. Matwau will be here in a few minutes to do the briefing.”

  Chandor almost ran to the fireplace where he grabbed three skewers and started tucking into the first before he even sat down, wolfing down the grilled meat and vegetables with relish.

  “Easy wolf pup,” Gerhard laughed, “Anyone would think you hadn't eaten in days!”

  Chandor didn't respond, but rather shoved another piece of sizzling meat into his mouth.

  He was slowing down towards the end of his last skewer when Matwau arrived. Chandor had seen travellers from the Nombuso Duchy before, their bald heads and height making them stand out in the crowds at Tinsley, but he had never met one personally and could only stare at the man in front of him. Matwau wore a heavy brocaded skirt that hung to his knees, held in place with a belt at least a hand-width wide. Despite the cold he was bare chested and wore open sandals. His head, face, chest, legs and even eyebrows and were smooth shaven. He was tall and muscled, with tattoos covering his arms and a red tattoo of intricate patterns running from his cheeks, over his skull and across his shoulders. He looked completely different from anyone Chandor had ever met.

  Chandor smiled to hide his distaste at the vaguely animal smell of the man, and Matwau responded with a grin, “I see you like my outfit. I am a Nombu fighter and these are traditional Naalyehe clothes. My name is Matwau. Its pronounced in three syllables, Mutt, Why, You. I'm the leader on this journey. Keep eating while I a brief you about the trip.”

  Chandor could only nod.

  “We will be heading up to Dor-Roc-Gan, the first dwarven village north west of Fistoria. We’ll be escorting five caravans carrying cloth, foodstuffs, gems, and leather, going to pick up steel goods, jewellery, and stone workings.

  “First, it’s a two-day trip to Bondor Hold where the merchants will do some trading and re-supply. Then five days in the wilderness beyond the borders of Fistoria to get to Dor-Roc-Gan, and six more to get back to Dragonpeace Cragg, where the trip will officially be over. The first leg should be relatively safe, since the army patrols regularly and sensible creatures know better than to enter Fistoria. Apart from the common stuff like giant beetles, snakes, spiders, and wolves, this time of year is bad for grab grass and blast spores. If everyone follows my lead and we all work together, none of them should present a problem.

  “We’ll be picking up some more guards at Bondor Hold, because once we are past the border, things get a bit more interesting. The last caravan had to fight off a small band of orcs, and a blue dragon has been sighted in the skies near Dor-Roc-Gan. Again, the key to a successful trip is following my orders. If I say attack, you attack without question. If I say run, you run. Got it?”

  Chandor nodded, his mouth full.

  “Good. Finish up and get a good night’s sleep, we’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Mercenary

  Matwau strode through the sleeping quarters with a bell, jerking everyone from sleep with much grumbling and moaning. Chandor was already awake, though he didn’t feel like getting out of bed.

  “Up, up, you lousy maggots! It’s time to ride and earn your keep,” Matwau shouted. Despite the cold, he was wandering around in just a loincloth without even a cloak around his shoulders. “Coffee is on the brew in the canteen! Up, up, get fed and watered, packed and ready to roll out!”

  Chandor rolled from the bed and stumbled through to the canteen, where the smell of hot coffee and honeyed toast made his mouth water. Fourie and Gerhard soon joined him in their standard chain mail tunics. Chandor almost choked when Matwau entered the canteen, armed and ready to go. While Matwau wore a standard Vander breastplate, he carried a large one-bladed Nombu battle axe in his left hand. Strapped across his back was a longbow and a quiver full of arrows with gold fletching that gleamed in the lamplight. Over his shoulders he wore a thick fur cloak, and had donned a heavy leather skirt and sandals. He leaned his axe against the table, grabbed six pieces of toast from the open grill and sat down next to Chandor.

  “In the Duchy of Nombuso, metal is rare and wood plentiful, so axes and bows are more common than swords and crossbows,” he stated as if they were in the middle of a conversation. “I had magical leather armour, but even it wasn't as good as this breastplate. I guess you only benefit from experience if you're prepared to learn,” he mused. “But if you think this is unusual, wait till you meet my pony.”

  Back in the sleeping quarters, Chandor pulled on his white woollen bracers, boots, and grubby white tunic. Then he headed out to the stables where Fourie was mounting a large Vander warhor
se while Gerhard looked on enviously. Chandor quickly saddled up and mounted, and was just finished when Matwau rode out on his mount, a small stubby white pony with distinctive black stripes.

  “This is Lungile, the best horse in the world. She’s carried me from my home village near Nayati castle. What do you think?”

  Chandor honestly thought the pony was ugly compared to the fine Vander warhorses that he commonly saw, but he politely said, “I’ve never seen a horse with those colourings.”

  “Ha, these are common in Nombuso. Here, all your horses are brown, or black, sometimes grey. In Nombuso ours are striped and patched. They’re much prettier. And cleverer. That said, we don’t have jousting in Nombuso, and I was very impressed by your Vander knights.”

  Chandor nodded, his eyes on the feathered longbow that hung across Lungile’s rump and the battle axe slung across the Nombu’s back. Chandor felt ill prepared with no armour and just his wooden staff. I wish I had my Guardian of Mankind plate mail, shield and mace. He looked around and saw several other mercenaries had gathered, their breath steaming in the frigid morning air. They wore a variety of armour from leather to chain to plate, and carried common Vander weapons like swords, lances and crossbows.

  “Let’s ride out,” shouted Matwau. “Fourie, you ride at the back. Gerhard, with the last wagon. Chandor, you come with me at the front.”

  They left the hostel, leading the wagons through the quiet streets of the town until they reached the main gate, where they were let out without fuss.

  The day passed uneventfully. Matwau kept up a stream of one-sided conversation, while Chandor half-listened as he brooded on the direction his life was taking.

  At first the landscape was dotted with small mine entrances and tilled lands, but as they wound their way further from the town the signs of habitation petered out until it was only the road that showed they were still in civilised lands. Above them the sky was clear and blue, but over the northern horizon ominous thunderclouds gathered. Most of the wild animals kept their distance, disappearing over the hill at the first sign of the humans, except for the graceful red-skin giraffes which watched curiously as the wagons passed.

  “Have you ever eaten giraffe meat?” Matwau asked.

  Chandor shook his head with a shudder.

  “I did. When I first came here I didn’t believe it was as bad as they said it was, so I had some as a bet. It was so disgusting! I couldn’t even keep it in my open mouth. I managed to chew once before I threw up the entire contents of my stomach! I can see why nothing hunts them.”

  Chandor couldn’t help but smile at the story, and he found himself warming to the barbarian despite the prejudices that were so ingrained by his Vander upbringing.

  The caravan stopped at a stream for lunch and by early afternoon had reached a waypoint similar to the one between Tinsley and Lynmith, but even smaller and more basic. Once camp had been set up, Chandor helped to make the fire. Then he watched some of the mercenaries and merchants playing a friendly game of ball. Later, as dusk came upon the campsite, he helped with the cooking, realising how good it felt not to be starving. He wasn’t the only person to say a quiet prayer of thanks to the Gods for the provision of hot food, but he was sure his was more heartfelt. After they had eaten, the mercenaries began discussing the watch roster.

  “Newbie!” Gerhard said to him, “Since this is your first trip, we’ve decided you can have the second last watch, from one till four. It sucks, but that’s a mercenary’s life.”

  Chandor shrugged, not really caring.

  “It’s nothing personal, Chandor,” said Matwau, misinterpreting Chandor’s apathy for sulking, “The most junior merc always gets the worst watch. It’s not really that bad, it just really interrupts your sleep. You may want to turn in early.”

  Chandor was quietly glad as it gave him an excuse to go to bed early. He had found the constant company exhausting and was tired of people. At the church he had plenty of time by himself, either meditating or studying, but with the caravan it felt like there was always someone around. He gratefully accepted the offer of a spare travel mattress and sleeping sack from one of the wagons, cursing his stupidity yet again for travelling so badly prepared. He lay awake brooding about the trip ahead, the Gods, and the church, but eventually he drifted off.

  A rough shake pulled him from slumber. He opened his eyes to see Fourie looking down at him.

  “It’s time for your watch.” The older mercenary waited until Chandor was standing before handing him an hour glass, “Here’s the timer. Count off three hours, then wake Matwau. You can chuck a log or two on the fire, and make coffee if you want, but don’t make too much noise. Keep your ears sharp – more secure camps than this have been attacked. If anything happens, ring the bell until everyone’s awake. For frig’s sake, don’t fall asleep.” He gave Chandor a slap on the back and headed off to his sleeping sack.

  It was bitterly cold. Chandor immediately set logs on the fire and made himself some coffee. Up above him the stars stood out in majestic splendour. Everything seemed at peace. Chandor realised he had been missing his daily meditation and resolved to start again the next day.

  His watch passed without incident and he woke Matwau on schedule. With a yawn he lay down next to the fire, and quickly fell asleep. It seemed only moments later that Matwau was calling for them all to get up. He dragged himself from his sack, feeling exhausted but also pleased that for a change he hadn’t been woken by his recurring nightmare. The caravan was soon on its way, the morning routine of eating, packing, and saddling up happening quickly and surely.

  “It’ll be a long day today,” commented Matwau, in his accustomed position at the head of the train. “We’ve about twenty-five miles to cover and these wagons are so slow that it’s a full day’s journey.”

  Chandor nodded and they set off. Chandor huddled miserably in his tunic which did little to protect him from the frigid morning air.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Just cold. I wish I had brought my gloves, scarf and a cloak.”

  Matwau laughed, “You Vanders are crazy with all your clothes. Why don’t you just use body rub?”

  Chandor looked at him in confusion.

  “The Nombu don’t feel the cold much because of this.” He rubbed his bare forearm and showed Chandor a waxy substance on his fingertips. “It’s a mixture of fats and oils made in Nombu. We rub it all over to keep us warm.”

  “How long does it last?”

  “I usually take off the old coat every five days or so with my shaving knife. It keeps me nice and smooth. Here, you can try some.” He tossed Chandor a leather pouch with a drawstring top.

  Chandor untied the draw. It had the texture of congealed fat, and a horrible animal smell. The thought of rubbing the stuff all over his body made him nauseous and he passed it back, “I think I’d rather be cold, thanks.”

  Matwau roared with laughter. “You call us stinking hairless barbarians, but we think you unwashed Vanders reek, and that beards and long hair are disgusting. In Nombu, smoothness is a sign of wealth and civilisation, and this is the smell of home.”

  Matwau’s face grew suddenly serious and he looked at Chandor sternly, “Now listen carefully, this is important. To survive, you need to ignore what is irrelevant and stay focused on what is important. A good mercenary can concentrate on his surroundings all day long, whether he is cold, hungry, tired or sore. We’re not far from the Fistorian border so we could find any kind of danger. Although Fistoria is usually safe, the problem is that sometimes it isn’t. This is a good time for you to start practicing your concentration by ignoring the cold.”

  Chandor nodded sombrely, thinking of how unaware he had been through the rain and hail of the thunderstorm. He lifted his chin, straightened his back, and started to sweep the surroundings for signs of trouble.

  “Good man, I’ll make a mercenary of you yet.”

  The morning passed quickly as the veteran shared tricks and games to help Chandor keep his
eyes, ears and gut constantly alert. Chandor was content to listen, and Matwau seemed to enjoy having someone with whom to share his endless bounty of entertaining and educational stories.

  As their shadows shortened towards noon they rounded a bend and Chandor’s heart skipped a beat. A hundred yards ahead of them he saw what looked like the round head of a giant monster with ten eyes on long stalks. It was looking at them over the grass.

  “Monster!” he yelled, pointing with his staff. Leaning forward in the saddle he readied himself to charge.

  “Halt! Halt!” Matwau bellowed, holding his hand up for the rest of the caravan and standing up in his stirrups to see. “Don’t move! It’s a blast spore!” He grabbed his bow from behind him and smoothly knocked an arrow to the string. “Look around! Make sure there aren’t any more!”

  Chandor stood in his stirrups. He looked around anxiously as he held tightly to the reins. Beyond the first monster there were another two of the creatures. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the mercenaries and merchants grabbing for crossbows and spears.

  “Are there any more?” Matwau demanded.

  “Two further back!” Chandor shouted in reply.

  The closest blast spore was drifting towards them slowly, the stalked eyes seeming to peer at them menacingly.

  “I see them,” Matwau confirmed as he drew back his arrow and took aim. “Hold on tight! Restrain the animals!” the barbarian shouted.

  The arrow leapt from Matwau’s bow and streaked towards the nearest monster.

  Chandor was convinced that it would bounce off the hide that looked like plated armour, but instead the arrow sunk in easily. For a moment nothing happened, and then suddenly the blast spore exploded with a deafening roar. The force created a hole in the ground and flattened the grass for twenty yards in every direction. Dirt and debris flew into the sky. A moment later the one behind it exploded too, followed immediately by the third as a piece of flying rock pierced its fragile skin. Chandor threw his hands up to cover his face. Luckily he was far enough away that, apart from the wave of sound and the rush of dust- filled air that swept over him, he was unaffected.