View Full Version : The Last Priest
Berevar is a part of the world renowned for being unkind to its inhabitants. The weather is harsh, and the land harsher. The winter winds have been known to break rocks from the mountains, sending them tumbling into bottomless chasms and leaving sword-sharp stone edges in their absence. The cold itself is unimaginable to those unused to it. It bites into the bones and gnaws at the fingers, driven on the wings of the wind to cut right through the thickest clothes and eat the warmth beneath. The land gives up its meager supply only after the greatest coercion, and any unwise soul that makes the attempt is forced to hack and claw at the earth to draw forth any sustenance. What little can be grown is tough, and as hard to eat and digest as it was to collect.
Those who manage to survive in Berevar quickly come to reflect the land. Whether Orc, Man, or some other race, they are a people of hard edges, clenched teeth, clenched fists, and slitted eyes. What little they have, they hoard jealously. There is no place for soft words and gentle thoughts there, and every day, every man and woman fights tooth and nail to hang on to the specific scraped-out patch of barren rock which they call home.
On one particular day, however, Berevar had finally grown tired of its unceasing cruelty, and granted a space of reprieve to one particular village in its southern mountains. The day was uncommonly fine, especially for early spring. The sun blinked weakly down, like an old man roused too early from his bed, and shone with what little heat and light it could muster. The wind panted emptily, his lungs uncharacteristically exhausted, and the cold, hissing at the sunlight, sank down into the crevasses and abysses between the peaks.
Humbar stood on the steps of his little temple and stretched as far as his old limbs would allow him, smiling broadly in the sunlight. He blew a long breath, indulging himself with a childish moment and imagining that he was a dragon, and the long cloud of steam that he exhaled was the smoke that came from the fire in his chest. The air was crisp and bracingly frigid, but for today it lacked that bitter taste that winter brought. Little things, he thought. 'Find pleasure in the little things, and the big things don't seem so big anymore.' I remember when old Mulphas told me that one. The priest hitched the sword on his belt and opened his eyes, looking down to the village below.
The priests of The Bright One had come here over a century ago, maybe longer. The records were unclear. The villagers had given them shelter and allowed them to hack their little temple into the side of the mountain above the village, which itself clung onto a wide ledge overlooking a vast chasm. The path to the village wound off along the ledge and into the mountains, eventually coming down to the lands southward. Humbar had, in his youth, heard some of the more ancient priests tell second-hand stories of those lands. They'd called it 'Salvar,' and spoken longingly of its warmth and fertility. In those days Humbar had entertained thoughts of leaving the priesthood and traveling south to finally see the fertile plains himself, but he never had, for one reason or another, and now he knew he never would. That adventure would go to Denn, the novitiate.
The steps in the antechamber behind him drew Humbar's attention, and he turned with a broad smile to see Denn himself standing there awkwardly. He'll be a fine young man when he finishes his growth, Humbar reflected. As it was, his novice's robes hung very loosely on his thin frame, and the walking staff in his hand seemed his twin for girth and height. Mousy brown hair hung into his eyes, grown long in the manner of a novice. His thin lips were pursed and his eyes nervous, as Denn shifted his weight awkwardly.
Humbar knew what the boy was about to say, yet refused to let him say it. Still smiling broadly, he stepped forward with arms wide and clapped the lad on his shoulders, even as Denn opened his mouth to choke out the painful words.
“Easy, lad,” Humbar said warmly. He'd loved the boy as well as any of his holy brothers, and it shone through every word. “I don't hold it against ye. Ye're young and the blood runs hot in ye. Get on while ye're still young.”
Denn's mouth hung open for a moment, before he regained himself and shut it. His discomfort was evident, but he passed down the steps readily enough, Humbar's arm hung around his shoulders.
“It is my shame,” he said, “to be leaving you so shortly before the spring ritual, High Priest.”
“Bah, forget it,” Humbar chuckled, taking slow, easy steps. He got some slight amusement from the awkward way that Denn was forced to match his pace to the older priest as he shambled along. “It'll be no real burden.” He chuckled again and continued to shuffle along, looking up to the sky. The winter months had almost driven away his recollections of a clear sky, and he beamed up into that pale blue canopy, even as its radiant orb beamed back down to him. “I considered adventuring away in my youth, y'know.” Denn looked at him quickly, surprise evident in his blue eyes.
“Truly, High Priest?”
“Oh aye,” the man chuckled in reply, “I felt the stirrings and whirrings of spirit in my bones, and thought many a time of departing and roving southwards.” He sighed and stretched his back. “Such a path was ne'er illumined for me, but I gladly shove ye down yers.” The High Priest grinned and, hanging behind the novice for a moment, gave him such a hearty push that Denn almost sprawled face-first into the rocky path. He turned, flustered, but the look of mirth dancing in Humbar's dark eyes was so infectious that the lad could not help but laugh as well, and the two priests had a thorough laugh which drew the attention of those villagers which were out of their shelters for the day.
The High Priest smiled happily as Denn finally broke into a bashful grin, reconciled to the truth of Humbar's good will, and began to walk down the mountain path with all the vigor that typifies unconstrained youth. Yet even as he bid a full-hearted and sincere farewell, Humbar felt a kind of ache in his chest, a sort of bittersweet gladness. I am glad indeed for the boy, he mused, and yet...
Denn turned a corner and vanished from sight, and Humbar gave a long sigh. He hitched his swordbelt again, gave a smile and wave to those villagers that gave him their usual curt greetings, and turned to amble back to his home. Denn was gone, and though the blow came with smiles and glad farewells, the High Priest of The Bright One knew that a final blow had been struck. He, and the religion to which he'd given his life, would not survive the year. Still, Humbar would not protest, would not mourn. Such was the way of things, in the world: some things passed on and were replaced, and some endured.
Humbar entered his temple and made his slow way to the altar, in the inner sanctum. He could only imagine what the ancient temples of The Bright One had seemed: this humble sanctuary of rough-cut stone had commanded his awe at times, and even so he knew it to be nothing extraordinary. I would have greatly like to have seen one of those temples, I think. He groaned as he eased himself down to his knees in front of the stone tableau. A spring trickled into the sanctum through one wall, bringing water from the snow-melts higher up, water cold and sweet and pure. This filled a small basin carved into the wall, and from this the High Priest filled the ceremonial bronze bowl and poured out an offering over the altar.
He groaned again as he pushed himself up and lit a slow-burning twig from a torch sconce in the sanctum, placing this on the altar as well. The old man sighed for a moment, leaning on the altar with both hands and hanging his heads.
“Hail to thee, Bright One,” he murmured, “ye that give us the light of truth in this dark world. I thank ye for yer kindnesses to me and pray only that I may be allowed to serve thee longer. Praise to thee, Bright One. I have given my life in your service, and I praise and thank ye for the honor.” Humbar paused, sighing again. “As ever,” he resumed, “I ask for a grace from thee, that ye'd grant me, in these my last days, a sign of yer favor. I am unworthy to ask, and yet humbly I ask again; give me a sign, Bright One. Your light has graced my path for my whole life, and I will never stray, but...” The High Priest's voice broke, and tears spattered the dusty stone. “I long to know the truth behind my faith, lord.”
Silence filled the sanctum for a moment before Humbar finally cleared his throat and pronounced the formal words, ending his prayer. The day was wearing on, and there were chores to be done. He'd likely be on his feet all day, not having Denn to help him anymore.
Denn turned a corner and vanished from sight, and Humbar gave a long sigh. He hitched his swordbelt again, gave a smile and wave to those villagers that gave him their usual curt greetings, and turned to amble back to his home. Denn was gone, and though the blow came with smiles and glad farewells, the High Priest of The Bright One knew that a final blow had been struck. He, and the religion to which he'd given his life, would not survive the year. Still, Humbar would not protest, would not mourn. Such was the way of things, in the world: some things passed on and were replaced, and some endured.
Humbar entered his temple and made his slow way to the altar, in the inner sanctum. He could only imagine what the ancient temples of The Bright One had seemed: this humble sanctuary of rough-cut stone had commanded his awe at times, and even so he knew it to be nothing extraordinary. I would have greatly like to have seen one of those temples, I think. He groaned as he eased himself down to his knees in front of the stone tableau. A spring trickled into the sanctum through one wall, bringing water from the snow-melts higher up, water cold and sweet and pure. This filled a small basin carved into the wall, and from this the High Priest filled the ceremonial bronze bowl and poured out an offering over the altar.
He groaned again as he pushed himself up and lit a slow-burning twig from a torch sconce in the sanctum, placing this on the altar as well. The old man sighed for a moment, leaning on the altar with both hands and hanging his heads.
“Hail to thee, Bright One,” he murmured, “ye that give us the light of truth in this dark world. I thank ye for yer kindnesses to me and pray only that I may be allowed to serve thee longer. Praise to thee, Bright One. I have given my life in your service, and I praise and thank ye for the honor.” Humbar paused, sighing again. “As ever,” he resumed, “I ask for a grace from thee, that ye'd grant me, in these my last days, a sign of yer favor. I am unworthy to ask, and yet humbly I ask again; give me a sign, Bright One. Your light has graced my path for my whole life, and I will never stray, but...” The High Priest's voice broke, and tears spattered the dusty stone. “I long to know the truth behind my faith, lord.”
Silence filled the sanctum for a moment before Humbar finally cleared his throat and pronounced the formal words, ending his prayer. The day was wearing on, and there were chores to be done. He'd likely be on his feet all day, not having Denn to help him anymore.
When he woke the next morning, Humbar groaned. His bones were creaking, full of aches and pains. His brazier had made a brave effort, but the ice had gotten into him all the same, and simply sitting up in his pallet brought a stab of agony in his back. The old priest stood slowly and shook himself, twisting as he tried to exorcise the knots in his body.
Humbar had long since come to think that there was some angry ice sprite ruling Berevar's weather. That day was as thorough a proof for his views as the most reasoned metaphysical treatise. The wind howled down the blasted canyon, baring fangs that dripped with screeching winter cold. Clouds loomed like gods on the horizon, black like treacherous ice, bearing an evil promise of snow. The priest tottered on his feet, preparing his meager breakfast.
“Bright One, bless your servant this day,” he muttered through a mouthful of nearly-frozen meat and bread, wincing at the crunching under his teeth. “Send your light to drive the darkness from my bones, for it seems that night itself would make a home in my knees.” He chuckled to himself at the trivial nature of his prayer. In his youth he had been reprimanded for daring to bring such meaningless speech into his conversations to the god, but now he was the High Priest. Even if I weren't, he mused, who's here to care? Even in those days, he had quietly ignored the rebukes.
“The Bright One is that from which all good comes, yes?” A much younger Humbar sat on the temple steps, basking in one of the rare days of sunshine.
“Yes, of course.” Vitris' tone was, as ever, flat and lazily acidic.
“Ought a man not thank one who gives him good things?” Humbar pushed further. Vitris opened his eyes and scowled over at the younger priest. He too had been enjoying the light, basking on the warming stone like a lizard, and he did not appreciate the interruption. More, he could sense where Humbar was steering this dialogue.
“Yes...” he admitted, grudgingly, “that is the proper way of things.” Humbar stretched like a cat, a victorious grin sprouting on his face.
“Then why should I not thank the Bright One for such good things as sunshine, fresh bread, or the rare cup of decent tea?” He slipped another morsel of the coarse brown bread into his mouth, chewing slowly and with blatant relish. Vitris knit his brows, an answer brewing on his tongue.
“If,” he began, “a king gives one of his subjects a gift, of any degree, how ought the subject thank his sovereign? Ought he make full obeisance with proper formalities, or simply laugh and leave?” Humbar's smile faded as he chewed, pondering this counter. Vitris continued, “I would say that he should make the full and formal obeisance. In the same way, while I do not think your thanks are unwarranted, I think them disrespectful in their lax and informal nature.”
“I suppose ye have a point,” Humbar conceded after a moment. “But I'd never thought that the Bright One was that... somber. He is The Light, after all. Light is joyful, isn't it?”
Humbar shivered as a gust of winter's hate pierced into his chamber. Those were days past, and that kind of talk had no place here today. It's irrelevant, anyway. The priest grumbled to himself, shivering under his cloak as he went through his morning chores. Under the skin of his mental placitude and good-cheer, he was realizing just how much he wished that Denn had stayed. The old man was lonely, and he realized that all at once he was in a foul and gloomy mood. All alone, a priest to a god that doesn't hear him. The winter never ends and the sun rarely visits, and here I sit, plodding along in my rites. He sighed, finding himself standing on the threshold of the inner sanctuary.
“Oh Bright One,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Don't leave me here.” Laying his hands against the stone doorframe, he leaned there for a moment. When he straightened and entered the sanctuary, having made his obeisance, he left tears painting the stone floor. The priest slowly set up and parodied the morning reverences, giving an arthritic prayer in his god's name.
The order of the day was not simple chores and religious work, not like other days. For followers of The Bright One, Spring's annual rebirth was a time of great celebration, and they kept meticulous calendars in order to mark the day at its proper time each year. Even in this far northern clime, where spring arrived so silently that one could barely know it from the snarling winter, The Bright One's priests had faithfully observed the rite of welcoming every year since they had first arrived. At first the villagers had braved the winds and the frost to see what these strange holy men were doing, but after a few years the only ones to regularly attend were those too young to have lost their interest, sometimes with a parent closely pursuing.
Today, Humbar opened the temple doors and shuffled out onto the front porch, where stood the public altar. The sky and snow shrieked in his ears and ripped at his cloak, trying to rip the ceremonial implements from his numbing hands. The priest ground his teeth, in no mood to deal with the weather's efforts to upset his ritual. He fumbled forward to the altar, carrying the filled ceremonial bowl and an amputated branch of wood. His brazier would burn the colder for its absence.
He set down the bowl and branch, careful to spill none of the sacred water. The priest paused a moment, burying his hands under his cloak as he collected himself, seeking tranquility as the screeching wind deafened him. Then he threw back his hood and scarf, baring his head and face to the storm, and spread his arms to the sky.
“Oh Bright One,” he declared, his voice bellowing to match the shrill pitch of the dying winter, “we thank you for your gifts of returning Spring, that once more you have graced us with winter's last breaths in the first breaths of the new season. We praise you for that rebirth and ask your bounty in this new season, that your holy light would shine favorably on us and bring such excess of life and growth that we could never repay.”
Leaving his implements on the altar, Humbar descended to the earth in front of the altar and, drawing his knife, hacked out a large clod of frozen earth. The wind seemed to scream all the louder for this wound, and Humbar was buffeted roundly as he staggered back to the altar. His face was red and wind-seared, and his hands already turning into rigid claws, but he pushed on in spiteful determination. My god may not be listening, he hissed at the winter spirit, but you cannot stop my speaking to him.
He smashed the clod on the altar, crumbling it into dirt. Over this he raised the filled bowl, holding it with both hands before he tipped it forward and emptied it over the patch of earth. It would be ice within minutes, he knew. The priest took the branch in hand and broke it, anchoring its tips in the earth. From his tinderbox, Humbar took out a smoldering bit of tinder, and set this in the broken fork.
“Oh Bright One,” he prayed, lifting one hand to the sky, in the place where he knew the sun must be, and setting the other over the spark, “may your favor renew us, and as the sky's water and the sun's fire bring life to earth and tree, pour forth your benevolence to us. Drive out winter's ravaging breath in its time, and return your invigorating touch to the world. I pray in your holy name, Bright One.”
Humbar opened his eyes slowly, not sure what was amiss. He looked down to see the branch burning happily in the soaked earth, and could not fathom why that bewildered him. Slowly he lowered his arm, looking to the sky and blinking in the sunlight.
Sunlight. The old priest's eyes widened as he realized that while he had been praying, the wind had died, and the clouds fled. Now that he saw it, that great gust when he returned to the altar had been the last moment he had truly felt the wind, and perhaps it had already been dying by then. The sky was wide and bright blue, all traces of ranked clouds fleeing to the north as the sun rose in power from the east. His heart beat fast, and the old man sank to his knees, bowing his head in awe.
“Oh light of health and truth,” he gasped, voice shaking in a whisper, “I am... I am humbled.” He lay there for a moment, hands clasped as he bowed over himself in wordless prayer. Humbar shook at the thought that, after all this time, his faith might actually have an object. His mind reeled in shapeless thought, so thoroughly cowed that it took him several heartbeats to realize what he was hearing. A crowd. Even on those rare days when the sun came forth of its own accord, the village had never trusted the light, and refused to come forth into the light and warmth. Now, as Humbar stood and straightened, he saw them all standing in the space between their houses. All of them, he realized, even the children. They were all standing and staring down the mountain path that led into the village, and as Humbar followed their gaze, his blood chilled. Rounding the corner and just coming into view were figures bound in furs and carrying what Humbar knew to be weapons.
The priest stood for a long moment, watching their approach. Then he turned and slid into the temple. He reappeared a moment later, wrapping his cloak about his shoulders to hide the sword strapped to his hip, and he joined the crowd at its back.
I rejoice, though terror shakes me to my roots.
The cold was gone, banished and cast away like cobwebs before fire. A sky of crystalline blue yawned overhead, deeper than any ocean. Hung in the sky like a fiery shield, the sun roared down with all the force of midsummer, proudly proclaiming its sovereignty in the heavens. The furious shrieks of winter were buried, inaudible from the depths of the abysses into which the spirit had been cast. Tranquility and warmth reigned over all.
Yet Humbar could not stop shaking as he shuffled to the back of the crowded villagers. The sun's heat had arrived in such a quick onset that the priest was already longing to discard his heavy cloak and footwraps, yet he quaked as if pierced through by the most biting winter gale. He clasped his hands, squeezing with all his might in a desperate attempt to give his body some stability and stop the resonating awe that shook him, but it was fruitless.
I have seen the working hand of my god.
The villagers near him eyed him with something near fear and contempt, and edged away from him. Humbar had to prepare his noon meal soon. He had been considering returning to his bed for a midday rest. There were raiders coming. His foot was sore from stepping on a stray pebble. Humbar's world spilled over with myriad concerns, yet one thought and one thought alone raced through his mind in endless cycles.
I have seen the working hand of my god.
His faith vindicated. All these long years of service, justified. Humbar had not wasted his life. He was not the High Priest of a dead, dull god, or a god indifferent to him. It was all the old man could do not to break out in a him there and then. Only the barest thread of propriety and will prevented him from such a display, knowing that he would attract attention that he did not need at this moment. His best course of action was to remain inconspicuous for now, and wait to see what these intruders wanted. So he restrained his fervor, and shook with the effort.
I have seen the working hand of my god.
The intruders were a stone's throw away, now. At their head were three figures: a man wearing a wolf pelt and carrying a rude stone axe, an orc brandishing a rusted iron scythe, and a second man, obscured by a mass of pelts and bearing an animal's skull mounted on a staff. Behind them were such a band of ruffians as to make any sensible man lock his home and search for a weapon: men and orcs, with a demeanor and garb that spoke only one thing: raider. These were not the sort to scrape a living from the hard earth; these were the sort who took the living which others scraped.
Humbar had no doubt they were here to take.
The man with the stone axe led the motley crew, and he stepped forward now, barking orders. His barbaric comrades spread forward, brandishing rough weapons and menacing the villagers. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and he swaggered as he stepped forward.
“Ah'm Rogga,” he chewed out. Humbar thought it was the ugliest voice he'd ever heard. “Weh c'om do'n fr'm th'hi'r places, 'nd yer g'ing to give'ns yer gruhb 'nd yer girls f'r th'day.” He grinned, revealing rotted teeth. “Ye does it nice and y'ns live, or ye sez no 'nd we does y'slow, 'nd takes it all th'same, yis?” The axe spun in his hand, adding weight to his words.
Not a soul moved.
Still shaking, Humbar waited at the back of the crowd, with one cloth-wrapped hand on the hilt of his sword. He wanted to see how the crowd would respond; whether or not they would need him to intervene. The thought crossed his mind that intervention might not be his place, but he shook it off, not bothering to reason it away. He would not let these men – these animals dressed as men – steal and desecrate. He was backed by a true god, and he would not fear.
Just as the priest was readying himself to shoulder forward and confront these barbarians, one of the village elders stepped forward. He was whirling a sling. Wordlessly, he released the stone. It would have buried itself in Rogga's eye, but the shaman at his back raised a claw-like hand, and the stone reversed itself, cutting the villager down. He toppled like a felled tree, dead before he struck the ground. Rogga grinned.
“Tha'k y'Goz. Guess we does it ah'selves.”
His smile faded, turning to a snarl, when every man of the village produced a similarly loaded sling, each already whirling. Another villager stepped forward.
“Y'run now, we don' kill ya,” he snapped, echoed by the spinning sling in his raised hand. Rogga gnashed his teeth.
“We does 'em!” he screamed, bolting forward. The raiders followed at his heels.
At the back of the crowd, Humbar's shivers calmed, and he drew the ancient sword.
“Guard us in yer light,” he prayed, with a smile on his face. For he was backed by a living god, a true god. He would not fear. What had he to fear?
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