Dark Priest

by Dale Vice

  “If I heal you, you’ll just attack me again.”

  When she didn’t deny it, Chandor placed his foot in the stirrup and with a grunt swung his armoured leg over the high-backed fighting saddle. A click of his tongue set the black warhorse moving.

  Anelle groaned again. Her voice was just a whisper and it only just carried to him, “At least forgive me…”

  Furious, his heart hardened and he bellowed, “Never!”

  He kicked Rage into a canter in the direction of Sanctuary, even as the tears started to flow down his face.

  The road crested the hill, hiding Anelle’s prone form from sight. A mile further on a flag pole held the tattered remains of a Fistorian flag. A 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 the first line a variety of languages which Chandor could not read presumably held a similar message.

  From the top of the hill there was a good view in every direction. Apart from the roads heading north to Lamar, south to Fort Dawn or Goldfield and west to Sanctuary, untamed savannah stretched as far as the eye could see.

  He thought briefly of Matwau and his previous crossing of the border. I’ve come a long way. Not all of it pleasant and certainly not a direct journey, but I’m getting close at last, I can feel it.

  The road was smaller and not as well maintained as its Fistorian counterpart, but otherwise nothing changed. Chandor was aware that the odds of being attacked by orcs, goblins or even giants were higher just by virtue of crossing the border, but the golden grass, grey thorn trees and rocky outcrops hardly recognised human borders.

  A desperate urgency swept over him. He pushed Rage and Tough Guy on towards Sanctuary despite his heart screaming that he should go back and save Anelle. I’m on a mission for the Gods, he argued. The vampire is near, and it is my purpose to destroy it. I know it. I can feel it. The arguments made sense, but he still found himself wondering what kind of Gods would want a man to leave his friend dying in the road? Chandor ignored the prompting of his spirit and urged Rage into a canter. Even the sound of thundering hooves could not prevent him from hearing the still, small voice that asked, Was Hengel right all along? Has my thirst for revenge made me evil?

  A peal of thunder announced the arrival of the afternoon storm. Chandor lifted his head to scream at the sky, relishing the distraction as the first icy drops stung his upturned face.

  Chandor awoke the next day feeling more powerful than ever. Anger burned inside him, fuelling his spiritual strength. He was so impatient to be on the road that he skipped breakfast and his usual meditation.

  But as he placed his foot in the stirrup, remorse shot through him. Thoughts of Anelle leapt unbidden to his mind. Irritably he pushed the feelings down and swung into his saddle. She left me no choice, and she did not deserve forgiveness. I will not feel guilty, he decided. Instead, he spent the ride imagining how good it would feel to beat the vampire to death with his shield and sceptre.

  He was sitting in his saddle finishing a lunch of dry travel rations when Rage crested a rise and Chandor saw Sanctuary ahead of him. Pennants of burgundy and gold fluttered in the wind. The town was unlike any he had seen before. Its meandering wall looked as if the town had expanded without planning or care, and was high in some places and low in others. Spikes bristled from the battlements like thorns on a tree and there was no symmetry to the defences. Lookout towers and massive crossbows covered some portions of the wall, while there was almost nothing along other segments. The moat petered out into a bog by one end of the town. Crude pictures were painted on the walls in bright colours; dragons, skulls and axes along with strange writing and symbols. In one or two places where the writing was in human, he couldn’t fathom what it meant. ‘Eat Death!’ was followed by ‘Loadhorn Rocks!’ and ‘Hard Axe Infinity!’

  Beyond the town, a hill jutted upwards. On one side a sheer cliff overlooked a rushing river. The other sides had slopes forested by grey barked thorn-trees. Perched at the top, on the edge of the cliff, was a foreboding castle. Towers with pointed roofs jutted skyward like skeletal fingers. A single narrow road led from the far side of the town into the forest, and could be glimpsed periodically as it wound its way up to the castle entrance.

  Wisdom prevailed and Chandor resisted the urge to circumvent the town and head directly for the castle. He knew that any information he could gather would be valuable. I cannot afford to be rash. As he drew closer to the town the hair on the back of his neck rose and he stared incredulously. Orcs and humans patrolled the wall together, while smartly armoured skeletons stood guard at the barbican gate. Their tabards were burgundy. A gold howling wolf was emblazoned on the chest and rows of white chevrons lined the top and bottom.

  Swallowing nervously and lifting a general prayer to the Gods, Chandor clicked his tongue and set Rage and Tough Guy walking toward the town.

  As soon as he was within bow range a particularly ugly orc with massive horns protruding from his helmet shouted at him. It drew a barbed arrow on huge longbow.

  “Hra’wraak. Ugh om ukupoga!”

  A moment later, a human joined the orc and called down to Chandor, “Halt! Who are you and what do you want?”

  “I am Sir Chandor of Bronsverj.”

  “You a Fistorian?”

  Chandor nodded.

  “What you doing here?”

  “I’m looking for a wagon from Copperstead which was carrying armour and weapons. Did it come through here?”

  The human guard shrugged, “Might have. I’d suggest you ask my brother, Ator, at the Dragon Breath Inn. For some good Fistorian coin he’ll put you up and get you any information you require. Do you have coin?”

  Chandor nodded warily, “Some.”

  “Open up!” the guard shouted.

  A heavy drawbridge dropped down, allowing Chandor to enter.

  Inside, the town was dirty and smelt awful. Unlike the Fistorian towns with their neat, paved squares surrounded by stone houses, this had wide and narrow streets of dirt and mud, crowded with tall buildings.

  Chandor struggled to keep his face impassive as his heart rate soared. Nervous sweat covered his body. Orcs, humans, goblins, and other humanoids he did not recognise walked the streets. Beggars of all races sat at the corners with begging bowls. Merchants yelled at him to purchase their wares.

  Chandor followed the human guard’s directions and soon arrived at the Dragon Breath inn, where a boy offered to stable his horses. Paranoid, Chandor nodded but did not pass over the reins. Instead he guided Rage with his knees after the boy, clutching his shield and mace tightly while trying to keep a watchful eye on both saddle bags. Once the horses were in the stable, he had the boy carry the saddle bags while he followed with his sceptre and shield at the ready.

  After he had paid, he was shown to a small room with iron burglar guards on the windows. A heavy bolt on the door supplemented the lock.

  “My name’s Ator. I take no responsibility for the safety of your possessions,” he was told by the sour innkeeper who eyed Chandor’s heavy saddle bags greedily. “Or your safety,” he added as an afterthought. “I would recommend keeping your armour and weapons at hand if you go out.”

  “Thank you. Your brother told me you might be able to provide some information.”

  “Greedy bastard just wants a cut of whatever I get. What is it you want to know?”

  “I’m looking for a wagon from Fistoria with armour and weapons. It probably arrived last week?”

  Ator stuck out his hand. Chandor fished a copper from his belt bag to a snort from the innkeeper. “I know the one you’re talking about.”

  “Yes?”

  “Poor money gets poor answers,” Ator grinned nastily.

  Chandor held up a gold piece and was rewarded with big eyes from the innkeeper. “I’ll pay real money for real information. But don’t mess with me or I’ll take my change in
blood.”

  “Sure, sure, I have real information for you,” Ator said as he wiped his hands nervously on his dirty apron, “The wagons come about every fortnight, taking armour and weapons to Baron Nuan’s castle. Some of it is used to equip his troops, here and up at the castle. His guards are skeletons mostly, but also some zombies, a few humans, and of course the orcs.” He leaned forward conspiratorially, “But most of it carries on deeper into the mountains. No one knows where it goes, but there’s rumours of a massive army being assembled. Some say it is for a war against the Kingdom of Fistoria, others that the orcs are targeting the dwarves, while the conspiracy theorists say Ironfist is going to play all the non-humans off against each other.”

  “Where does the baron fit in?” Chandor demanded.

  The innkeeper shrugged. “Who knows? He’s powerful enough to rule this area and doesn’t interfere too much, that’s all I care about. Out here, beyond the Fistorian borders, we need a strong lord to protect us. And the price,” he shuddered. “The price is small.” He gazed off into the distance for a moment before shaking himself, “I’ve said enough and earned my money. If you want more you can bloody well ask someone else.” He grabbed the coin, turned and stomped away muttering to himself.

  That evening, after a dinner that Chandor could barely keep down, he watched the patrons carefully until he saw a likely candidate; a teenage boy who seemed knowledgeable and well connected.

  Chandor caught his eye and motioned him over. Leaning close he said, “You look like someone who has knowledge, contacts. You know what I mean?”

  The boy nodded. “I can get anything. For a price.”

  Chandor pulled a gold from his pouch. “I’m looking for a way into the baron’s castle?”

  “Not the main entrance then…”

  “Exactly.”

  “Risky business. While I’m sure you just want to have a quiet word with the baron without attracting attention, some might think you were up to something sinister. If I were suspected of treason, I would lose my head. My head is worth more than one gold.”

  “How much more?”

  “At least ten.”

  “Fine,” said Chandor. “I’m staying-”

  “I know,” the boy interrupted. “I’ll be at your room at midnight.”

  Chandor stretched and said loudly, “I’m exhausted. I think I’ll get an early night.”

  In his room, Chandor removed his armour and laid it out carefully on the floor in the corner, along with his saddle bags and other equipment. He propped his sceptre and shield next to the bed, just in case.

  He sat down to meditate. As soon as he cleared his mind, feelings of heartache and grief overwhelmed him. Oh Anelle, what have I done? He groaned in pain. Tears cascaded down is face. I killed my best friend. I should have healed her. He lurched for a bucket and threw up violently. I should have at least forgiven her. His stomach heaved again. What have I become?

  He sat on the floor, sobbing until he had no more tears. Eventually he pushed himself to his feet. He caught his reflection in the cracked and grimy mirror. He barely recognised his distorted face. Somehow, it calmed him. He pushed aside his guilt and grief. I have become what is needed to avenge my family.

  He washed and collapsed into bed.

  Chandor started at the knock at the door. It felt like he had just fallen asleep.

  “Psst!” said the voice at the door, “It’s me.”

  “Coming…” Chandor grumbled. Still half asleep, he dragged himself to the door, thanking the Gods for his glowing medallion, which meant he didn’t have to light a lantern. He unlocked, then lifted the bar and opened the door for the thief.

  But for the grace of the Gods, the orc with the spear would have killed him. Chandor just managed to twist so that the long, jagged blade bloodied his side instead of running him through. A second orc cut at him with a wickedly curved sword. Chandor was forced to use his bare forearm to prevent the blow from decapitating him.

  Screaming in pain, Chandor leapt back. An armoured skeleton jabbed at him from behind the orcs with a poleaxe. The orcs pressed their advantage and followed him into his room, stabbing and cutting. Chandor cried out as the sword opened a deep diagonal gash from his chest to his groin. Blood spurted and Chandor felt fear rise. Outnumbered, unarmed, and unarmoured. Gods help me!

  He looked around desperately, taking in the barred window and his too distant weapons. The spear wielder took the opportunity to plunge his blade into Chandor’s stomach.

  Behind the orc, more skeletons poured into the room, and Chandor sobbed as the spear blade was ripped from his stomach.

  Desperate, Chandor screamed for darkness to cover the room. The words had barely left his lips before all light disappeared. He dropped to the floor and dragged his bleeding body under the table as shouts of fear and confusion filled the room.

  In the supernatural blackness, Chandor gripped his Holy Symbol tightly with one hand and prayed like he had never prayed before. His other hand held the gaping wound in his stomach to stop his entrails spilling out. Notomok, please heal me. Please, please, please. Warmth suffused him, and he supposed that if not for the darkness he would see light spilling from his wounds.

  He heaved a sigh of relief as the pain subsided and became aware of the other noises. Towards the back of the room he could hear panicked human voices shouting that they were blind. Just in front of him an orc roared in pain. Random crashes suggested that some of his opponents were swinging wildly in the darkness, connecting with cupboard, table, bed and hopefully other soldiers.

  As quickly and quietly as he could, Chandor scuttled across the floor on his hands and knees. He felt frantically for his shield. He almost cried with relief when his fingers found the smooth warm surface.

  “Shadows attack!” he commanded from behind its protective facade. The shield of the Shadow King bucked on his arm. A moment later the orcs started to scream

  Chandor lifted his Holy Symbol from around his neck and held it out in the darkness, “Undead, I rebuke you in the Holy name of Otec! May the power of Takatifu Roho consume you!”

  The sound of explosions temporarily drowned out the clash of the orcs and shadows doing battle. Chandor retreated to the corner of the room, feeling his way along the wall. He knelt behind his shield and quietly prayed for further healing, sighing as the power of Takatifu Roho flowed over him once more. He realised just how badly wounded he must have been when his probing fingertips warned him that he was still not fully healed.

  Suddenly there was silence.

  Chandor froze and waited. Thank you Gods! He prayed a third time for healing. The warm healing touch of Notomok brushed him and he finally felt that he had just minor cuts and bruises left.

  In the absolute darkness, he quietly rose to his feet. He gripped his shield tightly in front of him in case of a sudden attack, feeling particularly vulnerable without any armour.

  “Shadows? Attack anyone that is left.”

  There was not a sound and he couldn’t even be sure that the shadows were alive. He moved as quietly as possible to his left in case he had given away his position. Then he froze and listened again. After what seemed like an age he decided that the attackers were either dead or gone.

  He considered his options, then prayed over his Holy Symbol. Light blazed and filled the room, dispelling the supernatural darkness. He felt a surge of pride. My spiritual strength and stamina have both improved; My light is as bright as the orbs in the Cathedral.

  Blinking, he looked at the carnage around him. Deep cuts scarred the furniture. Two orcs lay dead on the floor. Five sets of armour and weapons told of his destruction of the undead. They all wore burgundy tabards with the gold wolf and white chevrons of the baron.

  A movement in the corner of the room made him jump, but it was just his shadows. The boy thief was nowhere to be seen.

  “I have a feeling the battle’s not over for tonight,” he said to the shadows. “Baron Nuan knows where we are and I’m sure he’ll se
nd more troops. We need to get out of here.” He started toward the door, then had a better idea. “You,” he pointed to one of the shadowy forms, “Lock and bar the door.”

  Chandor nodded in satisfaction as a patch of darkness slid along the wall to complete his request.

  He pointed to two more shadows, “Help me into my armour.”

  Two of the ghostly creatures acted as squires while the other two packed his equipment and he was soon ready to go.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Fully armoured, holding the Silver Sceptre and the Shadow King’s shield, with two shadows carrying his equipment and two more to protect him, he felt confident as he lifted the bar and cautiously opened the door.

  Chandor walked down the quiet corridor. The light from his Holy Symbol illuminated everything better than daylight. The inn’s common room was empty, but he heard a roar of voices outside.

  He smiled as he saw the gathering mob through the window, pitchforks and torches piercing the midnight sky. Clearly my rebellion has put some backbone into the villagers! We’ll storm the castle and finish the vampire’s rule forever.

  Chandor flung open the door to the inn, and paused dramatically. He knew that with his black and silver tabard flowing over full armour he would look both inspiring and intimidating.

  “There he is!” a voice called.

  Chandor lifted his sceptre and pointed to the cliffs, “To the castle! The baron’s bloody reign ends tonight!”

  He took a step to lead the mob, but the response was not what he expected.

  “Leave our baron!”

  “You’ll get us all killed!”

  “Ruag hawk ugo rojoko!”

  An arrow streaked out from the crowd and clattered off the doorpost.

  “Kill the troublemaker!”

  The first row broke into a run towards him. Chandor noticed that the mob was made up of humans, orcs and undead. Two sturdily built orcs led the charge, but Chandor wasn’t afraid.