Dark Priest Page 9

  The voice tailed off, still offering promises and half-truths, and Chandor drifted into blessed oblivion.

  CHAPTER 8

  Dor-Roc-Gan

  Dark leathery wings fluttered against his soul. Indistinct shapes outlined in flashes of purple brought pain with each touch. The endless oblivion sucked the warmth from his heart. His spirit could not move. It was bound and chained; a small child in a deep dungeon.

  Towering over him, the dark presence offered its hand and with it the power to escape. You are alone except for me. The church is a fake. The Gods have abandoned you, if they even exist. Let me help you. I will give you life and power. Give yourself to me!

  Deep within Chandor’s soul a tiny spark of life glimmered golden, refusing to be extinguished. He tried to cry for help and the flame flared slightly. His call came out as a weak choke, but the sound was welcome. It seemed to be the first sound in months that was his own.

  Suddenly, a clear, high voice sang out in the darkness that swirled around him. It was one of the songs from the church, sung as if by the best of the choir boys. It started to reverberate around the cathedral of his heart. The chained child that was his soul joined the singing with words of his own and Chandor reached out for Notomok, the Saviour of Mankind.

  A blinding light burst into the darkness. A huge winged being appeared, shining brightly. It carried a blazing sword in one hand and a trumpet in the other. Radiating warmth and comfort, it was so white that Chandor could barely look at it. Its voice was powerful, but pure. Do not be afraid, for the Gods are with you always, to the very end of the age. You know what you are called do to. Hate what is evil; love to what is good. Chandor recognised the words from the Sacred Texts. Keep serving the Gods. Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

  Chandor could feel his spirit growing as the being spoke. The child aged and grew, swelling until the chains around him burst. Light poured from his body and thawed his mind. Chandor climbed to his feet, straightening until his shoulders were back and his chin up. As he lifted his hands to praise the Gods he realised that he was wearing golden plate armour from head to toe. He threw back his head and bellowed, his rich deep voice driving back the night, “I will not fear the darkness. I will hunt down and destroy all that is evil! With the power of Takatifu Roho inside me, nothing can stand in my way!”

  Chandor opened his eyes and jerked upright. He was in the back of a wagon that rocked gently as it moved. He touched his Holy Symbol and nodded. Yes, I have purpose. I will not sell my soul to The Adversary. I will serve the Gods. I shall hunt the undead as I am meant to and get revenge for the death of my family. He felt exhausted, as if he had run a marathon. He flopped back on his mattress. He let out a long breath and shut his eyes, willing his body to relax. It was not long before he drifted into sleep once more.

  He awoke to the sound of rain beating down on the canvas roof, not feeling as rested as he expected. His slumber should have been peaceful, but instead he had been plagued by the sound of sinister laughter in the distant reaches of his mind. He lay still for some time, conscious of the throbbing pain of his wound. After a while, he sat up carefully in his sleeping sack and looked around. His own white tunic was nowhere to be seen, but a clean grey one had been folded neatly with his socks and bracers and placed on top of his cloak. His chest wound had been heavily bandaged. To his relief, he found he could move normally, although it hurt to do so. His thigh had also been bandaged, and his body carried numerous cuts, scrapes and bruises that he did not remember receiving. Once dressed, he made his way gingerly to the front of the wagon past another injured mercenary who stirred but did not wake.

  He opened the flap, and received a cheery welcome from the wagon driver.

  “Chandor. Glad to see you up. You had us worried for a while. Matwau will be relieved to know you’re ok.”

  The sky was dark with the thunder clouds. Through the rain the landscape appeared no different from what it had been when the goblins attacked.

  “How long have I been out?”

  “About a day. The goblins attacked yesterday afternoon. We’re heading on for evening but we didn’t stop for lunch as we have to make up some time. It took a while to get going yesterday after the attack.” The driver paused as he navigated the wagon carefully between some rocks in the road, and then continued, “Those friggin’ goblins surprised us. Ten were hiding close to the road under grass mats. Another twenty were hiding just over the rise. The first wave killed Bianca the wagon driver before she knew what hit her. Ludwig the wagon’s guard managed to shout, alerting everyone, otherwise the casualties would have been worse. He took a goblin down with him, but he’s also gone.”

  Chandor looked out to the rain, unsure what to say, or even what he felt. He hadn’t known either of them well, and believed that they were already on the golden path that would take them to the Gods, but the news of their deaths shocked and saddened him. The news also brought home to him how easy it was to die, and how close he had come. It could so easily have been me, he thought. I’ll have to be more alert, think more and act faster if I’m going to survive to have my revenge on the undead.

  The thought of the undead made him turn urgently to the wagon driver, “Has anyone done the Rite of Remembrance?”

  The driver nodded calmly, “The trader had a couple of vials of holy water from the church in Bondor. We used those when we buried them.”

  Chandor breathed a sigh of relief. In Fistoria a local priest would deal with any dead bodies, performing the sacred rites to seal the portal to the afterlife, thus preventing them from rising as undead. If a priest wasn’t available the alternative was to sprinkle the bodies with water that had been consecrated and blessed in the church, but not everybody bought holy water before travelling. Chandor knew how to perform the Rite of Remembrance. But since he hadn’t been ordained as a priest he wasn’t sure if he had sufficient authority to seal the portal to the afterlife.

  He thanked the Gods that the issue was already resolved.

  “Is everyone else okay?” Chandor asked after a while.

  “Paula and Torsten were both injured badly. It’s Torsten you passed in the back. But we dished out more than we received. I killed one, Torsten killed one, and Fourie got one. Gerhard injured two but didn’t manage to finish off either. And you killed one. Matwau killed four, but he’s still bleak. Even though they barely managed to steal anything this time, he still says we’re not making it difficult enough for them. I think he’s really hurting over losing two of his team. But you know what they say, ‘Everything happens for a reason’.”

  Chandor nodded, but the statement made his anger flare up inside. He could think of no reason that would justify his parents being murdered, nor could he see how the deaths of his companions and his injury could possibly be beneficial.

  Matwau rode up, appearing suddenly out of the driving rain, “I’m glad to see you’re up, Chandor. How are you feeling?”

  Chandor grimaced, “I’m sore, but ok.” He had to shout to make his voice heard over the sound of the storm.

  “That’s the spirit. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Matwau wheeled his pony, “I need to return to the front, but I’ll be back to check on you later.” With that he cantered to the front of the column.

  Matwau’s words seemed to resonate in Chandor’s heart long after the Nombu had left. He felt his heart firm with resolve as he thought, That is true, I am stronger. He rode on the seat with the wagon driver for a while, before retiring exhausted back to bed.

  The next day, despite the pain, Chandor left the wagon around midday to spend some time riding in front with Matwau. They settled easily into their familiar pattern, with Matwau talking loudly and animatedly while Chandor rode silently next to him. He held his black cloak tightly against the cold wind that swept across the plains from the distant northern mountains. He hadn’t been riding long before they saw the first tended fields, although there was not a person in sight.

  “
We’ll soon approach the dwarven town,” said Matwau. “There won’t be much for you to see since the dwarves live underground. I wish I could take you down with me, but the dwarves only let a few humans go down with the wagons. All junior guards and waggoneers will have to stay topside.”

  “How long will we stay?”

  “Probably a day or two, maybe three. It depends on how the bargaining goes.”

  “Frig!” muttered Chandor.

  Matwau laughed. “What’s the hurry? You got something better to do?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  Matwau looked at him quizzically, “Interesting. What is it?”

  “It’s personal,” Chandor scowled.

  “Fair enough. But remember, Chandor, every day you spend here you gain experience and become a better mercenary. You may not realise it, but you’re learning all the time. You see new things, expand your mind, develop your instincts. Fighting obviously makes your body tougher, but it also makes you become emotionally, mentally and spiritually stronger. And it’s not just fighting that strengthens you, but all kinds of challenges. All the mercenary companies recognise the value of development and are happy to pay more for veterans, especially if they’ve done tours outside Fistoria. It’s out here that you learn and grow.” He paused and sighed, “That is, if you don’t die.”

  Chandor nodded. While he was impatient to get back on his own mission of hunting down the vampire, he could hear the wisdom in Matwau’s words. His near-death experience had strengthened his faith and confirmed that he was on the right path. He had also spent a good deal of time thinking about the fight with the goblins, determined that next time he wouldn’t make the same mistakes, and knew that he was a better warrior for the experience.

  Matwau interrupted his reflection, “Ever seen a dwarf before?”

  Chandor shook his head.

  “Well, keep your eyes open. Over the next rise you’ll get your first glimpse of dwarven civilisation.”

  The ride up the long incline seemed to take forever, and the view when they finally did was disappointing. A low stone building, not even a storey high, stood in the middle of the wide plain of well-tended fields. In front of the stone building, a short section of paved road began and ended abruptly. On top of the building was what Chandor assumed was a dwarf from the short stature, bulbous nose and the heavy plate armour. It stood on guard with a heavy crossbow in its hands. Guarding what? Chandor wondered.

  Matwau signalled and they dismounted. The trader hopped down from his wagon and continued forward on foot. They pulled up a good twenty yards from the dwarf who eyed them casually with his crossbow held comfortably and not very threateningly.

  Chandor couldn’t understand a word of the greeting which was shouted in the guttural dwarvish tongue. After a brief exchange, the merchant returned to the caravan and told them that they could approach.

  Chandor led Sandy forward, and found himself on the short stone road. It was just two wagons wide, and two wagons long, and no sooner had he reined up than he was told to move out of the way. The wagon team unhitched all the animals and led them off the stone, so that only the wagons themselves remained on the road.

  Chandor looked at the fort. There were no doors on it, and no visible entrance. The only evidence that it was of humanoid origin was the dwarf looking down at them from the top.

  Matwau had dismounted and was standing near Chandor. “We’ll be off shortly. The rest of you can set up camp by the base of the stone fort. Watch carefully, you’ll be suitably amazed.” With that, Matwau sauntered off to join the trader with the wagons on the stone road.

  “Light the torches!” shouted Matwau. He waved to the rest of them, “Move back. Hold the animals tightly! We’ll see you soon!”

  Suddenly, the stone floor started to drop away, as if it were being eaten by the ground. Chandor surged forward towards the disappearing wagons, but was held back by one of the guards.

  “Don’t worry, boy. That’s a lift down to the dwarven lairs. As creepy as it is, they should be safe. Well,” he reflected, “they’ve always returned before.”

  Chandor shuddered. He walked to the edge. Fifty yards down he could see the wagons moving off into the darkness. Once they were off, the stone floor rose again to ground level, effectively sealing off the entrance to the dwarven world.

  One of the guards snorted, “Disgusting, hey? Living underground in the dark like that. Evil buggers, dwarves.”

  “What do they do that makes them evil?” asked Chandor, genuinely curious.

  “Don’t be daft, boy. The Gods made ‘em evil and that’s that. They were born deformed and cursed. If they were good, they would have been born human.”

  The guard rolled his eyes and Chandor decided not to pursue the conversation any further.

  They set up camp at the base of the tower. One of the guards produced a ball and a friendly game ensued. Chandor declined the invitation and instead moved away to find some peace. He spent some time in meditation and then, despite the pain in his chest, worked slowly through his stretching exercises and staff moves. The oils that he had been rubbing onto the wound every few hours seemed to be doing the trick and he was healing well.

  It was a full two days before the stone floor fell away once more, and the wagons rose eerily from the depths of the earth. The trader, waggoneers and mercenaries all looked pleased but refused to comment on their success.

  “Onward for Dragonpeace Cragg!” shouted Matwau once the oxen were yoked and horses saddled, and with much cracking of whips the caravan got underway once more.

  CHAPTER 9

  Tribon’s Dream

  Tribon rang the bell to Eben’s office once and waited patiently. He had washed in the hot baths to remove the grime from his journey. Once dressed in a clean white tunic he had meditated, eaten, and headed for the library.

  The door opened and the elderly scholar broke into a grin when he saw his guest.

  “Guardian Tribon, welcome back! Come on in.”

  “Thank you, Guide Eben. I’m eager to start my research into The Painbinder.”

  Eben shut and locked the door behind them, then led Tribon through to the secret room. Pointing at a chair by the fire, he passed Tribon a glass of wine.

  “How was the mission?”

  “Disappointing, to be honest. The ride to Fort West was uneventful – we went via Copperstead and Salanverj to avoid the border road. I would have liked to have met Lady West, but she was away on business. We journeyed north to the area suggested by Jurgen’s clues, but could find no sign of the sacrificial site where the relic is meant to be. It was good to be out, but ultimately unexciting and unsuccessful.”

  Eben nodded sagely, “Quests can be like that. Sometimes even if you find the place, the treasure has already been looted.”

  “Yes, well. Guide Jurgen has remained at Fort West to interview some of the locals and to use their library. He’s promised to let us know if he finds any additional clues.”

  “Jurgen is both tenacious and wise.”

  “I hope the same will be said of me one day. Where do you suggest I start my reading on The Painbinder?”

  Eben laughed. “Good boy. You are scholar after my own heart, and will make a valuable assistant.” He moved to the wall that was covered by book shelves. Scanning a few titles, he selected a leather-bound tome. “I think this is the best place to start. It is a collection of Painbinder Prophecies. There is no interpretation of the works, and it is presented in date order rather than grouped by theme. That means it will give you an unbiased introduction to the topic.”

  “Thank you.” said Tribon, taking the book reverentially. “I had no idea there were so many.”

  “Few do. The Painbinder Prophecies are best hidden in plain sight. We mention them in class, as one of many sets of prophecies. Many the individual prophecies, dreams, visions, and auguries are available in our main library if one had the inclination and patience to look. There is another good collection at the Vanelge University. I
’d guess that many libraries across the land, private or institutional, clerical or wizardly, have a book or scroll with a reference to The Painbinder. It is only when one starts to pull all the fragments, scrolls, and books together that you see how much there is.”

  Tribon shook his head in awe, proud to be included in the select few who knew.

  “This is deemed a lesser prophecy, and therefore not considered part of the canon of Sacred Texts so it isn’t widely reproduced by the Church of Mankind. Don’t worry if much of it doesn’t make much sense, rather, try and get a sense for what the Gods are saying and the key themes. See if anything leaps out at you.” He pointed to the other two walls, the chalk board and the one with pinned scraps of parchment, connected with cotton thread. “There will be time later for trying to tie everything up to see if we can determine connections.”

  Tribon looked at the book. The Definitive Collection, by Sasruth of Amber House.

  He read the brief introduction. Then, with little preamble the book moved to the first Painbinder Prophecy. It was by a prophet called Bo, from the year AL10.

  Tribon read for a good hour, absolutely engrossed. Eventually the warmth of the fire, the exhaustion of his mission, and the soft scratching of Guide Eben’s quill combined to overcome the terrors of his subject matter and he nodded off.

  When he woke, it was with a start and a cry.

  “What is it?” asked Eben.

  “I…I’ve just had dream. From the Gods,” Tribon said in wonder.