Dark Priest

by Dale Vice

  “I was meant to catch up with a merchant’s caravan on the road. It was supposed to be delivering armour and weapons here, but it doesn’t seem to have arrived. I have good horses, and an assortment of armour and weapons. Is there any chance you could put out the word that I’m here and looking for the buyer?”

  “Of course, good Sir,” smiled the innkeeper. “You leave it to me. I know all the right people. Honestly, there are only a handful of possibilities, but I’ll get them all to come and meet with you.”

  “As soon as possible, please.”

  “First thing tomorrow, Sir.”

  Chandor ate well, thanking the Gods for their provision. Travelling was hard and the poor travel rations that he had eaten over the past days made him appreciate the hot meal even more. After locking the doors and windows, he sank into the soft bed and quickly fell asleep.

  The vampire’s eyes bored into him as he struggled to fight off black chains that twisted and turned, slowly paralysing him. He struggled awake and dragged himself from the warm sleeping sack.

  He took time to thoroughly clean all his equipment. His sceptre and armour both had dried blood on them. He polished and rubbed until they gleamed once more. A hot bath and long mediation couldn’t stop him worrying that the Wanted posters would arrive and set the city guards on him before he had concluded his business. He ate a large breakfast, then paced nervously until the first of his guests arrived.

  By lunchtime, Chandor was significantly wealthier but utterly confused. He had met the smith, captain of the Guard, and heads of the local mercenary outfits, two wealthy merchants and even the head of the local church. All of them were interested in purchasing his stock but none of them had been expecting any shipments. Nobody, including the inn keeper, knew of a monthly wagon of weapons and armour.

  Chandor sold five of the six horses and most of the equipment. He kept one warhorse for himself as a backup and packhorse. He also retained a spare shield, helm and mace. He knew he hadn’t negotiated well, but still ended up with a chit for eight hundred gold pieces – an amount his parents would have considered a small fortune.

  He went to the local money lender had it paid in gems and platinum coins, with a few gold, silver and copper pieces for his money pouch. He immediately paid his taxes, wanting to remain impeccably within the law, but even after the ten percent cut, he could barely believe how much wealth he was carrying around.

  By the time the church bells rang three, he was back in his room with no more leads and a knot in his stomach. His nervousness climbed. Eventually he decided he could push his luck no further. He gathered his equipment in a rush and dressed for battle.

  Striding into the common room in his full armour, black and silver cloak already around his shoulders, he beckoned the startled innkeeper.

  “I’m concerned about my friends,” he lied. “I’m going to see if I can find them on the road and will hopefully be back soon. You can keep the coin for the extra night.”

  He distributed his equipment across the two saddle bags. He mounted Rage and led the horse he had affectionately named Tough Guy to the barbican. Trotting through the main cluster towards the open portcullis and drawbridge, his anxiety rose steadily. He had slowed Rage to a walk and was halfway through the tunnel when he heard the half-expected clamour behind him.

  Not bothering to turn and see what the commotion was, Chandor just urged Rage into a gallop and fled over the drawbridge to the astonishment of the guards. Over the noise of thundering hooves on wood he heard the shout he had known would come eventually. “Halt! In the name of the law!”

  Chandor crouched over his saddle and urged Rage and Tough Guy to full tilt. He hurtled down the main road, back towards Goldfield. Only once the horses were galloping smoothly did he risk a glance back over his shoulder. A squad of knights and dragoons had poured from the castle and into his dust. Although he couldn’t see clearly he guessed it would be about eight strong. A crossbow bolt leapt into the sky, landing on the road far behind him.

  He scanned the surrounding area. Tended fields with low stone walls spread out around him. He knew from his inbound journey that the nearest forest would be too small to lose his pursuers. He racked his brain for ideas.

  A trumpet blast made him look to his left where he saw a returning patrol with yet more soldiers. It only took a moment for them to catch on and they turned their horses after him.

  Frig. He lifted up a prayer, but knew that it would take a greater miracle than he could perform to defeat sixteen armed men. He veered to the right and his horses vaulted the low stone wall as he headed into a field. A glance back told him that the dragoons, with their lighter armour and faster horses, were gaining on him.

  Up ahead, his only hope lay in the entrance to an abandoned mine. The road was blocked with a low barricade which he jumped. Its black entrance gaped at him from the hillside like a giant maw. He hurtled towards it. The entrance was beckoning even as the dragoons closed in on him. He galloped up the dirt road. It had once been wide and clear but was starting to become overgrown. Branches slapped his helmeted face. A round of crossbow bolts hummed past him, one clattering off the plate armour on his back.

  With no other option he rode Rage at a full gallop into the darkness of the mine.

  The light from his glowing Holy Symbol provided visibility but he was forced to slow Rage and Tough Guy to a trot. He didn’t turn at the shout behind him, but pushed the horses onwards. Hopefully they’ll have to stop and light torches before coming after me, he thought has Rage carried him deeper into the mountain.

  “Stop, you idiot!” someone shouted from the entrance.

  “You fool! Come back!” the shout echoed off the walls.

  Chandor ignored the voice and continued into the mine, his face turned resolutely from the daylight.

  “Don’t you know what is in there? This mine was abandoned because of the Shadow King! He’s killed all miners, soldiers and adventurers that have entered.”

  “Come out, Dark Priest!” yelled a different voice, full of authority but no less urgent. “Imprisonment is better than death.” The voice was hard to make out as it shouted one last threat, “And death is better than what awaits…”

  Chandor finally looked back over his shoulder. The entrance was a small square of light way behind him, and the silhouettes of the soldiers could be seen milling about.

  To his momentary relief, none appeared to be lighting torches or following him. He halted Rage and Tough Guy and looked around. The shaft was broad and high, the ceiling well above his head and the sides ten feet to either side. Clearly, it had once been a prosperous mine. The dig sloped slightly downwards, dotted periodically with pillars of stone. Old wagon tracks and hoof prints covered the floor and he found himself wondering what manner of creature had caused the mine to be abandoned.

  He shrugged, “It doesn’t matter. I can’t go back or I’ll be arrested and possibly hanged. I have to find another way out.”

  The horses became more skittish as he headed deeper down the shaft. Despite the steady glow of his Holy Symbol, the shadows flickered at the edge of his vision. They seemed to stretch towards him from the blackness. Chandor reached down and gathered his shield, strapping it to his arm. He checked that the Silver Sceptre was easily available at his right hip, but opted to hold onto his Holy Symbol. Dead miners probably meant undead, and if they came he would rather be holding his Holy Symbol than his weapon. The hair on the back of his neck rose a moment before insane laughter drifted to him from the darkness ahead.

  “Welcome to my kingdom. All alone? Have you come to swear fealty?”

  The darkness seemed to close in around him, and Chandor had to wet his mouth before answering, “My Lord, I seek only safe passage.”

  “Come forward, and let me tell you a secret.” Soft laughter followed the request and Chandor felt a chill run down his back. Whispering filled his mind. It sounded like dry leaves being blown across a dusty courtyard.

  “There is no safet
y from the shadows!”

  Something shot out at Chandor from the darkness on his right. He thrust his Holy Symbol out and shouted, “Be gone!”

  Light blazed but the shadow kept coming and struck him on the arm. Pain flared. It was followed instantly by a pulling sensation and then weakness, as if a measure of strength had been drained from his body.

  The darkness coalesced to his left and he chopped down with his shield, but the metal passed right through his opponent and he almost toppled from the saddle at the unexpected lack of contact. The shadow struck him in the face and again the strange combination of blossoming pain and creeping lethargy assailed him.

  Underneath him, Rage lashed out with hooves that passed through the ghostly attackers. Tough Guy’s trampling as the shadows darted under him to get at Chandor was no more effective. Solid darkness clanged off Chandor’s armour and a recess in his mind thanked the Gods that at least the Shadow King’s minions were not all powerful.

  He bellowed the prayer of holding that Jurgen had used, “Be still, and know the power of Otec! I hold you for judgement in the Holy Name of Notomok!”

  Black chains materialised in the darkness. They wrapped themselves around four of the shadows that flickered between Chandor and the horses, but his hope turned to dismay as the chains fell to the ground and the dark shapes darted forward once more.

  Pain and numbness flared twice more as the Shadow King’s mocking voice called out, “This is why the army fled! You can’t hit my shadows with weapons, your mind tricks won’t work on them, and they can’t be poisoned. They’re not undead so you can’t even rebuke them! My shadow army is invincible!”

  Even as he swayed out of the way of a blade made of darkness, and deflected another with his shield, Chandor felt a surge of pride that he felt neither panicked nor hopeless.

  Stuff you, Shadow King, this isn’t the first time I’ve been in a difficult situation. I’m not out of tricks yet. He flicked the chain of his medallion over his head and grabbed the Silver Sceptre. Your shadows aren’t the first creatures I’ve heard of that are immune to ordinary weapons; Werewolves can only be harmed by silver, and there are plenty of undead that can only be harmed by magic weapons. Let’s see how you like the taste of my enchanted sceptre.

  Chandor waited until a shadow leapt from the ground towards his face and then whipped the Silver Sceptre into the spot where it was darkest.

  “Yes!” he shouted as the sceptre connected solidly with the incorporeal body and sent it tumbling back into the darkness. The threat of damage didn’t prevent the others from pressing their attack however. A lance of pitch black speared his arm. A hammer of darkness crushed his knee against his horse. With each attack more strength seemed to leach from his muscles. His armour weighed more and more heavily on his shoulders. His arms struggled to lift his shield and sceptre. Chandor felt afraid.

  “Otec! Protect me,” he called. “Rescue me from evil; protect me from the violent. Hear, Lord, my cry for mercy!”

  His skin prickled. A sound like a swarm of bees filled the air. The air shimmered around him. A moment later it looked as if his armour had been wrapped in a transparent gossamer veil.

  The darkness rushed towards him. Chandor tried to raise his shield, but his arm was too heavy. He winced as the deadly tip arrowed towards his face. Just as it was about to collide, it stopped dead, as if it had run into a brick wall.

  Three more attacks were deflected by the miraculous protective layer, and Chandor heaved a sigh of relief. Temporarily safe from the enchanted shadows, he prayed for healing and thanked the Gods as his wounds closed, while the shadows continued to bounce off the magical barrier that surrounded him.

  “So, Shadow King,” Chandor snarled as he edged Rage forward, “your army has lost its power. Are you made of stronger stuff?”

  The voice growled in the darkness. “What have you done? The shadows kill on my command. I am the Shadow King! I will not let you return me to mediocrity!”

  A figure rushed at him from the darkness. It was dressed in an ancient bronze breastplate and helm that gleamed in the light of the Holy Symbol. In its right hand was a long curving bronze sword. But it was the shield in its left hand that held Chandor’s attention. Shaped like an arrow head and blacker than night, it was the size of his torso and looked to be carved from pure obsidian. Chandor readied the Silver Sceptre but just before the figure reached him Rage lashed out with steel shod hooves. They connected solidly with the attacker’s breastplate and head, and the figure was thrown backwards to land sprawled on the floor.

  Chandor waited, tense, but the figure only groaned. The shadows ceased their futile attack and slid back to gather around their king.

  Chandor cautiously slid from Rage and approached with shield and sceptre gripped firmly in his gauntleted hands.

  Weak laughter drifted up to him, “I am undone.” The warrior reached up and pulled the helm from his head, revealing the bearded face of a typical middle-aged Vander man. “Still, better a king for a month than a nothing for a lifetime.” He weakly pushed the shield toward Chandor, “Three times a day for thirty minutes,” he coughed, “Now you are the Shadow King.”

  The man’s eyes closed and he breathed his last breath. The shadows that had gathered around him slid toward the shield and disappeared as if through a portal. In its darkest depths a hint of movement suggested that something lay behind its pitch black facade.

  Chandor looked down at the prone figure then at the shield. He hooked the Silver Sceptre to his belt and reached down towards the shield. Just before he touched it, he paused. It is clearly magical, what if it is cursed?

  He straightened, rubbing his Holy Symbol as he considered his options. He prayed that the Gods would grant him the ability to see the glow of evil in the same way he had been able to see magic.

  With enhanced spiritual perception he looked around the room. The shield did not glow and he snorted. Well, no matter what the man did with it, the shield itself is not evil. Nor any of his armour. Chandor unhooked the Silver Sceptre from his belt and walked cautiously in the direction from which the man had come.

  His exploration revealed shabby quarters. An old chair had been turned into a parody of a throne, set on a natural slab of raised stone and draped in a collection of cloaks. Nearby, an impromptu bed lay near a cold fire pit. A cart, previously used to haul rock, was filled with equipment laid out as if a royal treasury; picks, hammers, spades, knives, lanterns and in the centre, a small pile of coins. Chandor shook his head sadly. Pathetic man. What kind of purposeless life must he have been living, that a tiny cave kingdom seemed so glorious.

  Taking the coin and one or two items he thought might be useful, he returned to the dead man. He said the Rite of Remembrance, then reached down for the shield. The planes of the face were flat and smooth as glass, and strangely warm to the touch. He tapped the face experimentally with gauntleted fingers but it seemed as hard as any shield. Holding his breath, he smashed the Silver Sceptre down on its smooth face, and breathed a sigh of relief when it bounced off harmlessly. It was comfortably heavy and he slipped his left arm through the strap and clutched the hand grip.

  A sound like a hundred whispering voices filled his mind. We are the shadows. You bear the shield. We are yours to command.

  “Where are you?” Chandor asked.

  He received no answer. “What are the commands?” The silence in his mind made him grunt. Talkative buggers.

  Shrugging, Chandor gathered the ancient armour. He loaded it onto Tough Guy, wondering if it was also magical, and packed his own shield on as a back-up.

  He walked to the mine entrance, deep in thought. Although it felt like an age, the army remained at the entrance and he realised he had probably not even spent an hour in the mine.

  “The Shadow King is dead,” he shouted to the soldiers, “long live the king!” There was a flurry of activity at the entrance so he called out again, “Come back tomorrow and you can reclaim your mine and give the victims a prop
er burial. Remain here at your peril, for the shadows and I will be leaving tonight. Death awaits any that stand in our way!”

  Chandor returned to the dead king’s chamber and lit a fire. After brushing down the horses, he meditated, ate some travel rations, and considered his next move.

  CHAPTER 27

  Tribon’s Plan

  “Psst! Anelle.” Tribon hissed softly, checking up and down the aisle of books nervously.

  “Tribon? What are you doing here?” Anelle’s thick white cloak swirled around her as she spun to face him.

  “Shh!” Tribon whispered urgently before beckoning her to follow him as he led her down to the far end of the library.

  “What are you doing?” Anelle asked. “I thought that the High Priest had assigned you five days of silence and fasting in the chapel as punishment for your disobedience.”

  Tribon nodded curtly. “Yes, he did. And gave me ten lashes. But it doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t matter?” whispered Anelle incredulously. “Tribon, you went behind High Priest Hengel’s back, you led other Guardians and Guides on an unsanctioned mission. Three of them are dead!”

  “Shhh!” Tribon commanded. “Hundreds of thousands of lives are at stake here, Anelle. You know what The Painbinder will do.”

  “Tribon, give it up.”

  “During those days,” quoted Tribon relentlessly, “people will seek death but not find it; they will long to die, but death will elude them. And the texts say, “He is filled with fury, because he knows that his time is short.””

  Anelle shrugged. “So what? What do you want, Tribon?”