Dark Priest

by Dale Vice

  The Painbinder Pyramid by Dale Vice

  Three gripping introductions; two epic intermediaries; one stunning conclusion.

  Watch out for the remaining books in The Painbinder Pyramid by Dale Vice, coming soon…

  The Fistorian Hero by Dale Vice

  If you enjoyed Dark Priest, you’ll probably enjoy The Fistorian Hero by Dale Vice.

  SYNOPSIS

  Luthas is an ordinary farmer whose simple life is about to be changed forever. An evil warlord is massing undead troops on the western border of Fistoria, and a new orcish warchief has emerged to lead the Zaragu Clan to battle in the north. King Ironfist summons his armies and calls upon mighty heroes to protect the land, but the swirl of magic and prophecy may mean that it is up to Luthas to save his world.

  Read a free sample now and download the full novel from your favorite ebook retailer.

  Chapter 1: Introductions

  Just beyond the Kingdom of Fistoria’s northern border, two powerfully built humanoids faced each other in the gathering night.

  “Come ancient one, let me teach you humility,” growled Raug’Nar, swinging his hand axe from side to side as he taunted his opponent. As he stood in the centre of the forest clearing facing Morgrath the Massive, current Warchief of the Zaragu Orc Clan, the flickering torchlight made Raug’Nar’s tough green skin look almost black. He squeezed the grip of his spiked shield making the bulging muscles of his forearm ripple and hoped the shadows would hide his nervousness from the three hundred watching orcs.

  Morgath the Massive roared, opening his mouth full stretch to show off his huge saliva covered canines in the ritual orcish power display. The top two teeth, designed for tearing meat, were each an inch long, but it was the bottom set that were truly impressive, protruding two inches from his mouth even when it was closed and highlighting his age and strength. Yellow and black, thickly coated in spit, they gleamed in the light of the torches.

  “So, you have plucked up the courage to face me, puny upstart,” Morgrath sneered. “Pity, if you had waited five more years you might have been worthy.”

  Raug’Nar shivered. Morgrath’s voice was deep and powerful, his charisma undeniable. His huge body towered over Raug’Nar even though Raug’Nar was hardly small. The orcs watching the spectacle cheered in appreciation of the verbal sparring and in anticipation of the battle to come.

  This exchange was not only about proving his fighting prowess. Raug’Nar knew he needed to get the support of the orcish warriors if he were to put his plans into action. In addition to winning the fight and gaining their respect, he would also have to inspire them and capture their hearts if they were to follow him into battle. Raug’Nar growled and bared his own impressive teeth before raising his voice so that it carried to all the assembled orcs, “I would rather die today than keep following you. You have no plan!” The orcs cheered and Raug’Nar continued, his voice even louder, “Where is the glory? Where is the honour?” He stared straight into Morgrath’s gleaming yellow eyes, issuing a direct challenge. “The fire in your blood has died,” he bellowed at the top of his voice. “You are dead! With me as leader, the Zaragu Clan will once again be great!” Then Raug’Nar roared at full volume so that the rocks shook and the very earth vibrated with the noise.

  The gathered orcs yelled and screamed. Many of them began jumping up and down in frenzied excitement. The chief drummer started thumping on the war drums. The time for talk was over and Morgrath suddenly shouted a battle cry and charged, swinging his giant Doomblade with both hands as he came. Although prepared for it, Raug’Nar was still amazed at the ferocity of Morgrath’s attack. Raug’Nar had to use both his shield and his axe to fend off the flurry of blows that rained around him. A downward blow dented his shield, a powerful right cut was only just blocked with his axe, a thrust almost passed his hurried parry, and hard left cut taken on his shield bruised the muscles of his forearm.

  Over the years, Raug’Nar had seen numerous foes slain in Morgrath’s initial onslaught, and as a powerful two handed thrust glanced off his breastplate, he worried that he had overestimated himself by challenging the older and stronger orcish chief. Even while ducking and weaving, Raug’Nar chided himself for his self doubt. This is the start of my victory! By the next gathering of the clans I will be an orcish hero, my name known throughout the orc territories.

  The giant Doomblade swept downwards once more and Raug’Nar took the blow on his shield, but instead of falling back he used his powerful legs to drive him even closer to his opponent. Chest to chest, he knew that Morgrath did not have space to swing his massive weapon. Morgrath tried to back away, but Raug’Nar pressed closer and hacked at Morgrath’s left shoulder with his axe. The experienced fighter managed to twist so that the blow fell on his body armour, but Raug’Nar hacked again, this time aiming low.

  He felt his blade bite into Morgrath’s knee, and the older orc fell to the ground with a scream. Bright red blood spurted onto the ground from the wound and Morgrath clutched his leg in agony.

  “Yield!” bellowed Raug’Nar, knowing that older orc would not. Morgrath lashed out from his prone position with his weapon, but Raug’Nar was ready; he slapped the blade aside with his axe, and then trapped it on the ground with his boot.

  Raug’Nar stood over the prone figure of Morgrath the Massive, watching for any sign of trickery. “Yield, old orc. I have need of your wisdom in the coming campaign against the humans. Work with me, and together we will be great. Refuse, and I will kill you as you lie.”

  The orcs of the Zaragu clan stamped, yelled and hammered their shields in appreciation. Slowly, the tension went out of Morgrath’s body and his hand unclenched from around the handle of his weapon. “I yield, Raug’Nar.”

  Raug’Nar lifted his foot off Morgrath’s blade. “I am glad, Morgrath.” He sheathed his axe and reached down to help the former chief to his feet, “Come. Now I will tell you of my dreams for war, and glory!”

  Just inside the Kingdom of Fistoria’s northern border, Luthas the farmer looked up at the battered old sign of the World’s Edge pub and smiled. It was a glorious evening in the peaceful village of Fairview and the sound of children playing in the nearby square carried clearly through the cool autumn air, while further away he could hear the livestock settling in for the night. Luthas paused for a moment, savouring the beauty of the evening. On the far side of the square he could make out the silhouette of the solitary guard patrolling casually along the top of the broad stone outer wall of the village, while from inside the pub the booming laugh of his best friend Garius could be heard easily over the hum of other voices. A gentle breeze carried the aroma of dinner from the nearby houses, and up above, the first stars were appearing in the dark blue heavens. A beer will hit the spot, he thought as he pushed open the door to the pub.

  “Luthas! Just the man we're were looking for!” called Garius from their usual table in the corner. He was sitting with their friends Karlus and Tertius who owned the fields next to theirs. “Are you available for a game of ball next week? The merchants have bet that they can beat us farmers by two goals.”

  “Count me in!” declared Luthas, pulling up a chair and waving to Anrich the barman for a beer. “It’s high time those merchants were reminded of their place.”

  “I really think we can beat them this time,” said Karlus, wiping foam from his moustache with a thick, meaty hand.

  “Especially if we play as well as we did against the artisans,” said Tertius. Like the others, he had the broad shoulders and weathered face of a man accustomed to the heavy labour of farming in northern Fistoria.

  Anrich arrived with the beer and Luthas fished in his pouch for two copper pieces.

  “I see your wife’s been at you with the clippers again,” commented the barman with a smile.

  “Yeah,” grunted Luthas, self consciously running his hand over his jaw and feeling the soft brown hair of his neatly trimmed beard, “she says I look like a ruffian when it gets too long.”

 
; “One of the perks of bachelorhood,” laughed Garius, his wild mane of a beard shaking. “No woman to complain about my long hair.”

  “Or your smell!” said Tertius, punching him on the shoulder.

  “I told my Deborah that I need my hair and my beard long to keep me warm in winter. She didn’t even argue,” declared Karlus.

  “That’s ‘cause when the first spring shoots appear, she’ll shear you like a lamb!” laughed Garius.

  Luthas leaned back in his chair and sighed in contentment as the conversation carried on around him. He looked at his friends, the pub, and the beer in front of him. Truly the gods are good, he marvelled. He offered up a silent prayer that the gods would continue to bless him as they had in the past, but even as he prayed the words of the priest’s sermon returned to haunt him.

  “Your souls are eternal, so you should not fear death. You must submit your lives to the will of the gods, for that is your true purpose.” At the time it had felt as if Bartemus the priest had looked directly at him when he said, “Trust the gods, for they have great plans for you.”

  Despite the warmth of the pub, a premonition of danger and suffering sent a shiver down his spine, and Luthas shuddered. He wondered if it had anything to do with the war brewing on the western border of Fistoria. While it was far away, the ripples could already be felt in their small village of Fairview. The price of steel and wood had been climbing steadily as the king drew on resources to supply the army as it geared up for war, and taxes had risen again. Recently, some of Luthas’ friends in the town guard had received marching orders to go and join the forces massing at Carreg Kanor.

  Luthas shook his head to dispel the gloom which had settled over him momentarily, but then he saw Addius enter the bar and his heart sank even lower. There were between seven and eight hundred people in the village of Fairview, and of them Addius was the only one Luthas didn’t like. It was true that there was a bit of rivalry in the village between the merchants, artisans and farmers, but only where ball was concerned and it was generally good natured. With Addius it was not. The tall, athletic merchant made his way over to their table and looked at them disdainfully down his long thin nose. He clapped Garius on the shoulder and smiled, “So, are you farmer boys ready to suffer another humiliating defeat at ball in two weeks time?”

  “You only won by a goal last time, and that was in the last minute.” Garius pointed out levelly.

  “Ha! We were just toying with you babies. We could have scored anytime.” He saw the farmers scowl and laughed. “Hey, I’m just kidding with you. You put up a good fight. Anyhow, don’t get so tense, it’s just a game.”

  Luthas felt his blood boil at the blatant hypocrisy of the man. Addius was the single most competitive and unsportsmanlike player in the village and everyone knew it. Unfortunately, he was also particularly good at ball.

  Luthas was about to retort when Addius looked across the room and nodded in the direction of the portly mayor of Fairview who was settling down at a table in the far corner of the pub, “If you gentlemen will excuse me, my drink is ready and I have some important people I need to talk to. Drink nicely, boys.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and made his way smoothly to the far side of the room.

  Luthas looked round at the scowling faces of his friends. “Hey guys, ignore him. We’re here with good friends and cold beer. What else could a guy want?”

  “A game of dice!” laughed Tertius.

  “And a beautiful woman!” chuckled Garius as he rolled two die into the middle of the table. Luthas laughed at the predictability of his best friend. Dark premonitions and priestly predictions were mostly forgotten as he took another sip of his beer and settled in for a festive evening with his friends. Still, he could not quite shake the feeling which lingered at the back of his mind that somewhere out in the world events were unfolding which would fundamentally affect his village and his life.

  A cool sea breeze blew in through the open windows of Taksheel Keep, parting the curtains and revealing the dazzling starlit sky over the eastern ocean. From the third floor council room the Amishnal harbour and its ships could be seen by the pale moonlight. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, and thick carpets and rugs adorned the floor. An Orb of Continual Light floated over the table, casting a bright light onto the various maps strewn across the large polished tulwood table. Around it were seated three of the most influential humans in the land – the General of the Fistorian armies, the King’s Wizard, and the High Priest of the Church of Mankind.

  King Ironfist XIV strode into the room, undoing the large gold clasps of his heavily embroidered cloak as he moved. He swung the cloak from his shoulders as he reached the table and tossed it to his squire, then quickly seated himself at the head of the table. “The war has finally started.”

  The General nodded her head. She was an ugly woman, with a flat face and muscles of which most men would be proud, but she was a fighter of renown and widely acknowledged as the best strategist in the country. “After months of threatening, this combined army of goblins and undead monsters has made its move, marching eastwards from strongholds in the Shrouded Mountains. It has split into three groups, with two forces besieging Fort Arend and Fort West, while the third and largest contingent marches on Carreg Kanor.”

  The King traced the route on the map from the Shrouded Mountains to the solid square which represented Carreg Kanor, the hulking stone castle that dominated the western border of Fistoria. “Do you have any idea for their numbers?”

  “Their total army is huge, the largest of our generation. We estimate two hundred thousand in total.”

  “What? Do those damned goblin vermin breed so fast?” demanded the king.

  “They do, but my numbers also include the skeletons and zombies that have been raised to life to march with them,” explained the General. “I’m afraid to say that even though we’ve steadily increased the number of troops stationed on the western front over the past two years, we will not be able to hold off an army of this size for more than a few months.”

  King Ironfist XIV ran a hand over his clean shaven jaw. Even without his crown his lean body possessed a regal air which dark, hard eyes did nothing to soften. “What do you suggest, General?”

  Jigisha shrugged. “My Lord, we need to send yet more troops. There is no other solution.”

  “Where can we pull them from?” asked the King. “We have drawn heavily from our peaceful boarders and the central territories. The Wall and northern Fistoria must have adequate protection.”

  “True, but if we do not reinforce our western defences, this army will destroy them. From there they will sweep eastwards into the soft underbelly of the Vander Duchy, falling on the undefended farming villages without mercy. The goblins will kill and eat our men, woman and children, after torturing them for their twisted pleasure.”

  “I have fought my share of goblins, General Jigisha,” the King reminded her. “I know how dangerous they are.”

  Altheor the High Priest leaned forward, his green eyes blazing. “This foe is more than dangerous, Your Highness, it reeks of evil. Their leaders obviously have no qualms about raising the bones of the dead to swell their ranks, and we must assume that they will show no honour when it comes to battle. We cannot afford to underestimate the power of this dark force.”

  Ironfist peered over his steepled fingers, “Any suggestions?”

  After a few moments of silence, Del Zanath the Arch-mage removed the pipe from his mouth and stated, “Northern Fistoria, and hire some powerful adventurers.”

  Ironfist, Altheor and Jigisha were all used to the aged wizard who seldom remembered to explain his thought processes. “Elaborate for those of us whose minds are not so quick,” suggested the king with a sigh.

  Del Zanath swung back in his chair, and absently toyed with the feathers braided into his long grey beard. “We have already reduced our policing capabilities as far as possible while remaining a lawful kingdom, so drawing troops from the interior is not
an option. We have already pulled everything we can from the north western front, trusting in continued peace with the dwarves. We know that to further reduce strength at The Wall would invite an attack from the Dark South, so that too is not an option. The East Coast, lightly defended at the best of times, has already given all it has.”

  He paused and wagged his pipe at them, “However, Northern Fistoria remains quiet for now. The orcish clans are scattered and weak. While they are unpredictable and may suddenly decide to attack, it really doesn’t matter because we don’t have a choice. Either we move troops to western Fistoria to repulse this existing threat, or goblins will overrun our defences and sweep unchecked throughout our land. Better to take a risk in the north than to guarantee a defeat in the west.”

  The king nodded. “And the high level adventurers? That will cost chests of gold, are you sure we need them?”

  “Definitely.” Del Zanath sucked on his pipe and blew a long stream of orange smoke into the air. “There must be a mastermind behind this. Goblins are not naturally organised, and yet this army is fighting to a well thought out and executed strategy. In addition, the presence of the undead suggests a more sinister plot. Someone or something must have raised them and is now controlling them. It could either be a mighty undead being such as a nightshade or litch, or perhaps a powerful magic-user. Either way, your usual forces will not be able to handle it no matter how many you have. Therefore you need some powerful adventurers.”

  “Does everyone agree with Del Zanath’s assessment?” The king’s dark brown eyes bored into each of his council members in turn. When each had confirmed with a nod, he snapped his fingers. Immediately a messenger appeared at his side. “Send word to the Dukes of Vander and Nombuso, tell them to reduce forces along the northern border to all but a token guard. They are to marshal their troops and march to Carreg Kanor castle.” The messenger nodded once, spun on his heel and hurried from the room. Another messenger took his place by the king’s side as Ironfist continued, “Send someone to find Ngrangor Bothbreaker and tell him that the king needs his services urgently. Last I heard, he was hacking ice giants to death in the frigid wastes beyond the Cobalt mountains. Use magic to contact him if need be.” With a wave of his hand the messenger was dismissed and hurried from the room.