Dark Priest Read online

  “I need get some proper travelling clothes, especially a cloak,” Chandor sighed, feeling too tired to go shopping but knowing he needed to. He was well aware that it would only get colder as they headed further northwards.

  Matwau shrugged, “Fair enough. There might be some shops still open along Tailors’ Way.”

  Chandor got directions and headed off on foot, taking his staff with him. He quickly found Tailors Way and was relieved to see that some of the shops were open. He started to browse, thinking, I don’t want to look anything like a priest. He found an extravagant red tunic of embroidered velvet with a lace ruff, which had matching socks, gloves, bracers and cape.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “Twenty gold for the set.”

  Chandor almost choked. He carefully hung the outfit back up. He searched some more and found a simple grey cloak which he liked.

  “How about this?” he asked.

  “One gold.”

  Chandor shook his head in disappointment. “I’m looking for a cheap travel cloak. Do you have anything for a silver?” he asked.

  The merchant shook her head, “No, sorry, we don’t have anything. But, you can try the second-hand shop around the corner. You can get some descent stuff there, and the prices are fair.”

  Chandor found the shop and told the assistant what he was looking for.

  “I don’t think I have anything in white…” mused the shop keeper thoughtfully.

  “It doesn’t have to be white,” replied Chandor, trying to keep the annoyance from his voice, “Just warm, hardwearing, and cheap.”

  “Well, in that case I have just the thing,” smiled the shop keeper. He rummaged through a pile of clothing and pulled out a thick black cloak with a hood. It was well worn, but not shabby or threadbare, and looked at least partially waterproof. It was exactly what he was looking for and Chandor tried to hide his delight as he asked the price.

  The shopkeeper checked the peg, “One silver.”

  “Perfect!” Chandor handed over the silver and took the cloak, pulling it over his shoulders immediately and tying it at the front.

  “Looks good, but I’ve never seen a priest in black before,” commented the shop keeper, looking in puzzlement at Chandor’s white tunic and Holy Symbol.

  Chandor pulled the hood up. “Exactly.”

  Further up the road he spent some time trying to decide whether to use the remainder of his funds on toiletries, eating utensils, or flint, eventually deciding that toiletries were the only items he would not be able to borrow or share. Feeling slightly better equipped, he took a meandering route back to the hostel. He felt liberated, as if wearing the white tunic of the priesthood had somehow constrained him and now that it was hidden, he was free. He caught a glimpse of himself in a shop window, and stopped. I look good, he thought in the darkness of the hood. Actually, I look bad. Nobody will mess with me in this! He twirled the staff around his head, and positioned himself in the attack stance, admiring the way the dark folds of the cloak settled around him. Priest no more, I have been reborn! He turned and headed for the hostel.

  He slept restlessly despite his exhaustion and was awake when Matwau rang his bell to get everyone up. Chandor pulled on the cloak, feeling self-conscious now that the others were around, but a nod from Matwau settled his doubts.

  “Nice. It makes you look a bit older and gives you a bit of an edge”.

  The ten mercenaries got ready quickly and made the short trip to the warehouse where they met up with the wagons and the merchants before heading for the gates. Once more, Chandor rode at the front with Matwau.

  “Where are you bound?” asked the soldier at the gate.

  “Dor-Roc-Gan,” stated Matwau.

  “Excellent. Would you mind replacing this flag at the border if the old one has been ripped down?” asked the guard, holding out a large folded triangle of Fistorian blue.

  “Sure,” answered Matwau. He turned to Chandor, “Stick it in one of your saddle bags, will you?”

  Chandor nodded his head, and took the Fistorian flag with pride.

  The caravan turned north and immediately forded the frigid river. They crossed without incident, but the mercenaries and merchants were clearly more edgy. Everyone travelled with their hands near their weapons. They made good time on their first five miles, and turned westward for the border. Nobody strayed far from the wagons at the midday lunch break, and the mercenaries were on constant alert while they ate and watered their horses.

  Two thirds into the day the road wound its way to the top of a hill, where a tall flag pole held the tattered remains of a Fistorian flag. The simple grey gauntlet on a blue background was no longer even recognisable, but a large stone obelisk at the side of the road held an engraved message, “You are now leaving the Kingdom of Fistoria.” On the opposite side of the obelisk, was written the message, “Humans only beyond this point.” Below it, the same message was repeated in a variety of languages which Chandor could not read.

  From the top of the hill there was a good view in every direction and Chandor could see the imposing structure of Bondor Hold in the distance. In the opposite direction, untamed wild savannah stretched as far as the eye could see.

  They replaced the tattered flag with the new one. Without further ado, the wagons pulled off and Chandor left the Kingdom of Fistoria for the first time in his life.

  The rest of the day passed quickly, and well before sunset they had found a place to make camp for the night. The five wagons were pulled into a rough circle. The camp was divided in two by a rope barricade with the animals on one side and the cooking fire on the other. They set, but didn’t yet light, a circle of lanterns in a wide circle around the camp, in anticipation of the darkness to come.

  Suddenly, there was nothing to do. Four mercenaries were on guard, while Chandor and the other five were allowed to remove their armour and boots to relax. Matwau brought out some dice but was unable to entice the others to play. Instead the Vander mercenaries were content to sit around the fire and discuss the next round of the Castle League jousting tournament which was fast approaching.

  Chandor listened for a while, but found himself unengaged. After a few minutes, he left his seat by the fire and found a quiet place to meditate. He sat cross legged again, with his back to the setting sun, then he shut his eyes and sought the Gods in the depths of his soul. Even though he was heading away from where his quest for revenge pointed, he found that he was glad to be in the wilderness beyond the Fistorian border. Perhaps out here, beyond the protection of the king’s army, I will at least find evil monsters on which to unleash my anger. Maybe here, away from civilisation, I can do what the Gods have called me to. He lifted his prayers to the Gods, asking them to bless him as he did their will, and sighed in pleasure as righteous fury flooded his system. Brooding on the undead and the damage he would do to their kind, he felt alive and energised once more. By the time he was called for his watch, he felt ready, and almost hoped that something would attack the caravans.

  The night was freezing. Chandor paced up and down, covering his quarter of the circumference. Staff in hand, he kept his cloak wrapped tightly around him with the hood up over his head. His long hair helped keep his ears and the back of his neck warm, but he longed for the day when he had a beard like the other mercenaries to keep the cold off his jaw and throat.

  Guards were posted at each compass point, and lanterns placed in a wide circle around the camp, creating an illuminated pool through which any approaching creature would have to pass. The guards themselves sat or stood in the dark next to the caravans where they could see without being seen, too nervous to need to be warned to stay awake. Unlike within the border, the watches were no longer a mere token, but hard reality with multiple guards on at the same time.

  To Chandor’s disappointment, his watch was uneventful, though a distant roar of an unidentified beast sent shivers up and down his spine, and left his mind playing tricks on him for ages. Eventually he was relieved an
d he returned into the centre of the wagons to fall asleep instantly next to the fire.

  The next two days passed without incident. Each morning, the nightmare of flames woke Chandor before sunrise. Both times he relieved the grateful mercenary on last watch, earning him a reputation as a diligent, if quiet and sombre companion. Despite the lack of sleep that caused dark circles to form under his eyes, he felt alive and energised. Even the icy deluge of the afternoon thunderstorms didn’t get him down.

  He continued his evening routine of helping to set the camp and then retiring to a quiet corner to meditate, sometimes spending as long as an hour before he was called to dinner. In those periods of focused prayer, he could feel his spirit being honed as if it were gold being refined in a fire. The teaching and lessons that had seemed so theoretical at the Tinsley Cathedral started to take on a reality. He felt as if he were truly connecting with the Gods for the first time. As he meditated, his conviction of his life’s purpose became clearer. I will become a holy warrior and undead destroyer, no matter what the church says.

  Halfway through the third day, Chandor was riding in his usual position with Matwau at the front of the caravan. He was soaking up knowledge about the wilderness and adventuring when a scream sounded from behind them. Chandor wheeled around to see goblins swarming over the centre goods wagon. He pulled Sandy in a tight circle and charged without thinking, only realising belatedly that Matwau was not with him. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the experienced Nombu warrior standing up in his stirrups, looking around carefully; thinking before he acted. Chandor knew he should have done the same, but it was too late because Sandy was at full gallop. A moment later he was engaged.

  The goblins were about four feet tall, skinny but hardy, with sinewy muscle under mottled green skin. Their eyes were large with horizontal pupils, long nails like a dog, and rows of teeth in a flat face. Like maggots in rotten meat, they were swarming all over the covered wagon. Some were attacking the guards, others were already plundering, and more were rushing in from the long grass around the wagon.

  Chandor guided Sandy in close to the wagon, focusing on a goblin that was climbing up the outside of the canvas. He stood in the stirrups, raised his staff over his head and swung at it with both hands. He struck the goblin solidly in the side, knocking it from the wagon but didn’t get to see whether he had killed it as Sandy’s momentum carried him past. He reined her in, wheeled, and went charging back into the fray. Ahead of him he could see Fourie and Gerhard hacking at goblins with their swords. An arrow whistled past Gerhard’s head and felled a goblin. Chandor glanced to the head of the caravan and saw that Matwau had moved to a patch of high ground near the lead wagon and was now systematically loosing arrow after arrow.

  A whistle sounded and the remaining goblins started to flee, carrying as much loot as they could.

  “After them, slay them as they run!” bellowed Matwau. “Don’t let them get away!”

  Chandor kicked Sandy’s flanks and she leapt in pursuit of a fleeing goblin.

  “Yah! Yah!” shouted Chandor, waving his staff in the air one handed. He closed quickly. Guiding Sandy with his free hand, he tried to trample the fleeing creature under Sandy’s hooves. At the last second, Sandy shied away since she had never been battle trained and the goblin managed to recover some of its lead. Chandor dragged at the reins and started to close on the goblin again. Letting go of the reins, he grabbed the pommel of his saddle with his left hand and swung one handed with his staff at the goblins’ head. The blow was clumsy, and Chandor almost tumbled from the saddle.

  The goblin swerved, dropping the armful of leather pouches it was carrying, and veered off to Chandor’s right, opening a gap once more.

  Chandor shouted and kicked Sandy’s flanks again. He could feel the blood and adrenaline pumping through his body. There was no way he would let the goblin escape. He rode up close behind the small green monster and pulled his feet from the stirrups and up to the saddle. When he was close enough, he leapt from Sandy’s back, swinging his staff two handed. His blow missed the goblin. Momentum threw him from his feet and he went tumbling across the hard ground. Slightly dazed from the fall, he clambered awkwardly to his feet just as the goblin leapt at him with a short stabbing knife. Chandor staggered back, parrying wildly with his staff until the goblin stopped pressing its attack.

  They started to circle, the uneven ground with its stones and clumps of grass feeling treacherous under Chandor’s arena-trained feet. The years of practice could never have prepared him perfectly for real battle, but still proved useful as Chandor sank into a better battle stance and adjusted his grip so his hands were evenly spaced about a third from each end of the staff.

  Still circling, Chandor made the mistake of following as the goblin feigned a strike to the left. The goblin leaped forward. Wielding its knife with animal speed, it cackled with glee as it sliced a thin line down Chandor’s thigh.

  In return, Chandor charged forward and struck with his right hand, forcing the goblin to dive to its left. Chandor immediately followed with a left-hand strike. It connected solidly with the goblin’s compact body and sent it flying backwards through the air. The goblin rolled to its feet quickly, but it was badly shaken. As they started to circle once more, Chandor saw it was limping heavily. Its yellow eyes darted around as it looked for an escape.

  Chandor was breathing heavily. Despite the adrenaline, he could feel an undertone of fear threatening to paralyze his mind. He knew he had gained the upper hand, but didn’t know how to finish the fight. He probed for an opening with his staff, desperate to secure the victory but unwilling risk losing. He was aware of his size advantage but knew that the goblin was a wild animal. It was strong and probably faster than him, and certainly more used to fighting for its life. I’m sure one more solid blow will finish it, Chandor thought. He also knew that one good stab could also kill him.

  Chandor decided what to do and stepped forward. Before he could swing his staff the goblin leapt at Chandor’s face, with its mouth full of pointed teeth wide open. Chandor blocked with his staff held horizontally. The goblin grabbed the staff with its free hand and swung underneath. It stabbed Chandor in the chest.

  Chandor screamed in pain. He pushed back with both hands and threw the goblin away.

  Pure instinct made Chandor leap after it. He slid his right hand down to meet his left and swung horizontally, using the staff as a giant club. All his might went into the blow, even as his chest screamed in pain. The goblin was still off balance, twisting to try and regain its feet. Chandor’s blow caught it on the back of the head and caved it in with a sickening crunch. The goblin fell to the ground, instantly dead. The body lay still except for one twitching leg.

  Chandor put his hand to his chest. It came away covered in blood and he nearly fainted. The white tunic had a large and rapidly spreading red stain.

  “Oh, frig,” he mumbled.

  He looked around, dazed. One of the other mercenaries was running towards him, a sword in his hand, slowing now that the goblin was dead. Nearby stood Sandy, eyes rolling and shaking with fright. Chandor stumbled over to her, and dragged himself up into the saddle. The world started to spin and he slumped forward against her neck. The other mercenary arrived, and took the reins. He led them back to the caravan where Chandor was lifted gently onto a wagon.

  As he lay in the wagon, Chandor’s whole body shook with fear. What will happen to me? Will I lose the use of my arm? What if the knife nicked my heart and even now all the blood is seeping from my body? It was not the pain itself, which was a deep and throbbing ache, but rather the fear of what it meant that made him shiver. He stared up at the sky. Gods, I have so much to do. I’m not ready to die.

  “Here, drink this,” a voice urged.

  He took a sip of sugar water, and flopped down again.

  Would I bargain for my life? He was afraid that if Notomok and the true Gods didn’t answer, he might be tempted to seek other sources of power. A distant voice from de
ep within his soul seemed to be offering power and life in exchange for service. Chandor shivered. It felt as though a huge hole had opened behind him and a cold wind was blowing up his back; as if he were standing back on the Shalandra bridge with his black cloak billowing out around him. He felt himself falling, backwards, backwards into the void.

  As he fell through eternity, a dark, terrifying voice called out to him, making him want to hide even while sending shivers of delight up and down his back. You are going to die here, Chandor. Give yourself to me, and I will give you life. Join with me and you will be great! The voice was alluring, compelling and powerful. Chandor knew it was evil, but part of him didn’t care. The promise was so seductive that his soul begged to hear more. Not just life, but immortality…Follow me and I will give you power you cannot comprehend. Chandor’s small spirit pushed back against the seemingly infinite darkness. Do not listen. You know this is wrong.

  The voice cut in, authoritative, rich, and scathing. What do you owe to anyone or anything? Men, Gods, or the church? None of them have done you any good. Little help all those prayers are to you now. You need something to live for. A vision, and a true purpose. The Gods have abandoned you, as they abandoned your family. The church has failed you, as it failed your family. You will die here in the wilderness, and no one will even miss you. Leverage my power and you can fulfil your quest. Destroy the undead and anything that stands in your way. Expose the church for the fraud it is. Fight the Guardians of Mankind and have your revenge!

  A barrage of thoughts slammed into his mind, coming so fast he struggled to refute the lie before the next blow landed like a kick on a downed fighter. You need to look after yourself. The Gods don’t exist. No one else has your back, and no one else will. What do you have to look forward to except revenge? Love is weak. What is there for you in this life? Only power and pleasure matter. Trust me. Follow me. You could even overthrow the Gods themselves. You shall be great.