Battle Cleric: The Lost Scroll of the Gods
an excerpt

A few people have indicated confusion with my excerpt because I didn't start it at the beginning and the excerpt I chose seemed confusing. To rectify this, here is Chapter One in its entirety, along with my apologies for the confusion. I hope this helps:

CHAPTER ONE – Whispers of the Lost Scroll

The sun shifted shadows of dancing leaves across the walls of my tower office. I had flung the window wide open to let in the early summer breeze, knowing full well that I was tempting myself to play truant when I should be reading urgent reports from my network of data-gathering agents and answering politely worded demands from the Shemaran Council.

I sighed and went to the window, regarding the sweetly homey scene. Molly, our young Halfling cook, sat outdoors, enjoying the breeze and deftly peeling potatoes into a huge pot for the night’s supper. Aliss, the Huramesti housewoman, hung out laundry from the porch, singing a hearty trail riding song, and Tadman, the gods-touched half elf, collected wood from the yard firebox to power the huge oven Molly needed for cooking her delicacies.

I had just returned to my desk and picked up the first report, an ink-blotted missive from our man in Challa, the northernmost territory on our continent. It boded no good, these ink splotches, since Kenron was fastidious and known for his letter perfect reports, the envy and sometimes despair of every other courier and messenger in the network.

It was addressed as usual to Emerald Verity, High Priestess of the Temple of the Maker in Shemara. That would be me. Not as usual, it began, “Trouble is brewing...” A sharp rap at my door caused me to look up.

“Come,” I replied, laying the scroll aside with a sigh.

The door thrust open and Metallin walked in. I should say he strode in. Metallin never walked anywhere. He charged or he strode or he marched. It’s not that he was pompous, but he had a certain regimented determination that sometimes daunted even me.

“Milady,” he said. I waited, somewhat surprised at the additional slighter presence of a rogue I knew from the back alleys of Shemara.

“This,” Metallin said, pushing forward the man into the light of the room, “this miscreant says he has information only for your ears. He has disrupted my office repeatedly with his demands, no matter that I have advised him you were not to be disturbed. And he has laughed”--here Metallin choked slightly on the words--“at my threats to have him incarcerated.”

“I see,” I said gravely. “Very well, Metallin, leave him with me, and I will hear what he has to say.”

“But milady, it matters not that he has been here before. He has never proved himself to my satisfaction. He may be a recurring danger to you, he...”

“And stand you just outside the door to prevent any mischief from said miscreant,” I interrupted, trying not to let the smile in my mind reach as far as my eyes or my mouth.

“As you command, milady,” Metallin said stiffly, turned and marched out, closing the door firmly behind him.

I leaned back and regarded the so-called miscreant. “All right, Felspar, what do you want this time?”

The man watched me with a sly grin. A lot about him seemed sly, from his dark, give-nothing-away eyes, to his too-smooth hair and his undisguised half-elf look, the ears not quite pointed enough. He had enough confidence, or perhaps insolence, to not try to hide them with a pull-down cap. It was a shame that that might even be sometimes considered necessary. At one juncture, the Council had outlawed breeding among the races but, since it was impossible to eradicate either love or rape, the law fell by the wayside, and now these by-blows were viewed merely with caution at best, suspicion at worst. Both treatments, of course, were grossly unfair, and I had lobbied to put an end to the discrimination. It’s hard to stamp out prejudice, though. I believe that many half elves simply grew into their reputations. Felspar was one of them.

He bowed slightly and grinned again. “What makes you think, milady, that I want something of you?”

“You usually do, Felspar.”

He managed to look genuinely hurt. “Not true, milady, as you yourself have cause to know. You’ve been on the receiving end of our bounty often enough.”

“True,” I admitted, “but I have, as often as not, been on the giving end of your needs as well.”

“This time, lady, it is a genuine morsel of news I bring. And it might well be boding no good to any of us in Shemara, or, for that matter, the entire world. Athero itself may be in danger.”

I waved the man to a seat in the corner of the room. “You have five minutes, Felspar.”

Satisfied, he slipped into the seat, as insubstantial in the shadow as a puff of coal dust at midnight. “First, I have a question.”

I nodded.

“Have you, milady, in the course of your clericly duties, heard of any spell so powerful that it has been buried these long centuries for fear of a world-destroying mischief?”

“By the Maker, what nonsense is this?” I asked, not sure whether to laugh or growl.

He leaned forward. “It’s no nonsense, milady. There are indications that this is the Maker’s own truth. Have you not heard tell of a spell that can raise the dead?” He took a look at my face and went on hurriedly before I could speak, “I don’t mean the ordinary cleric spell used for resurrections shortly after falling in battle. I mean a spell that can be used years, even decades, after a person’s death, and needs only some form of substance of the...er...deceased to effect total resurrection?”

Anger was my response of choice. “What by all that’s holy do you mean, you scoundrel? There’s no such spell, never has been such a spell, and never will be. If so, loved ones from decades back could be brought home again, to life and to families. It’s a travesty to suggest...”

I stood, struggling with the grief that I thought I had buried well in the back of my heart.

“No, Felspar, there is no such spell. If there were such a spell, it would not have stayed hidden, but would have been used to right the wrongs of battle and end the sorrow of bereaved spouses and orphaned children. I have been a cleric of the Maker for many decades now and not one whisper of such a spell of power has reached my ears. Go away and do not bother me with such nonsense.”

The man rose and bowed. Before he turned to go, however, he added, “Then, if this be mischief, milady, there is someone of great wealth wasting a lot of time and gold to find out the answers to these questions I have asked.” He flourished his cloak at me, then slipped out the door before I could speak.

Within seconds, Metallin stomped into the room. “Shall I detain the rascal, milady?”

I shook my head. “Let him be, Metallin, and thank you.”

“Very well, milady.” My aide left the room and I sank back in my chair, weary to the bone.

It’s amazing how your own psyche can trip you up. People look at me and they see the High Priestess of the Maker, often adorned in the pomp and ceremony of my office. With the practice of the ages, I have wrestled my facial responses and my speech into the smooth, non-emotional façade required of a servant of the people. But, no matter how I seem in public, I am prone to the emotions that afflict all, even us elves. It is not true that ice water runs in our veins.

Never less true than at the Battle of Guron Strand. It was my first real battle. We had put out to sea from Shemara and sailed a short distance, seven knots if I remember correct.ly. I thought it was going to be a lark. We’d had advance warning and were sure to take the undead by surprise. Bronzearm Shemara, the current Lord Shemara’s grandson, was part of the fighting contingent, and I thought it great luck that he was assigned to my first battle unit. He and I were lovers, and I knew myself to be in love, the real thing.

We disembarked at Guron Strand and marched inland less than a mile. As suspected, we took the enemy by surprise, and I thought, oh, is this all it is? It’s fun. It wasn’t even like we were killing real people.

I glanced every so often over to where Bronze was fighting, his helmet pulled low over his brow and his swords lifting and falling with rhythmic ease. My own instructions were simple. Heal the fighters. I did so with amazing effortlessness. My energy seemed inexhaustible then. I even had time to whack a few of the ungodly undead with my new sword, and was congratulating myself on such expertise in my first battle.

Then I heard the battle call of “cleric!” and came out of my reverie with a start. Looking back, such a breach of combat alertness was inexcusable, but I use my youth to at least explain it.

I rushed to where the fighters were surrounded by a crowd of undead warriors, uttering their chilling moans and insane laughter. Reinforcements had joined them, and we were in trouble. The situation hit me foursquare between the eyes. Men and women were down, dying of their wounds. With so many dead and dying…it was all very well to say heal the fighters but who did I heal first?…whom did I resurrect and whom did I leave to the final death because my healing energy was gone? Not only was the decision-making process almost impossible for me, but I had to do it instantaneously. It was my first taste of the heart-rending responsibility of a battle cleric…deciding who would live and who would never be with their families again.

Decisions were made with haste, and afterwards I was told I made the right ones. The leader of our party, a grizzled warrior with more fighting knowledge in his little finger than I had in my entire body, was resurrected immediately. I threw healings upon him while the younger warriors took the brunt of the renewed attack of the undead. Bronze fell, and I saw it, but I could not aid him. I healed in order of priority and fighting ability. Bronze had been a good fighter for a young man, but there were others who had more experience, more ability, more to offer the fighting companions. Thus, Bronze died and was untended for the duration of the resurrection time limit. When I finally got to him, it was too late. His father and grandfather were overcome with grief when we finally returned to Shemara, and a day of mourning was proclaimed throughout the city. I was inconsolable.

As I said, I was upheld in my decisions by the Council, right up to the Lord of Shemara himself. I was impressed with his dignity and courage and generosity, but I still wondered if I had done the right thing on the big picture level. From a personal perspective, it was a disaster to which I had, apparently, never recovered.

I wanted to slip down to the Temple and give up a prayer to the Maker to restore my equilibrium, but as I was on my way out the room, I tripped over a parcel on the floor. Picking it up, I realized it probably had been dropped by the rogue as he left the room. I didn’t need to open it. It was identical to many such parcels I found after his visits before, each of which had contained between 300 and 500 gold pieces, along with a note asking for intercession for the rogues and pickpockets of Shemara with the Maker. A straight exchange—gold pieces for intercession with the gods. I tossed the parcel onto my desk to deal with on my return and ran down to the Temple as quickly as I could without arousing alarm.

A brief balancing prayer brought me back to my center, and I returned to my office, refreshed and more at peace, to think about what Felspar had told me. Perhaps there was some truth to what he said. But then I considered my yearning for Bronze and decided it was just wishful thinking. There had never been any mention of anything like this in all the history of the high elves, on Athero or in any of the archives brought from our home planet of Eslin lost to us so many centuries now.

The top report from Kenron was still waiting. I picked it up and started reading. “Trouble is brewing,” it read, “and the dark elves are behind it up.”

I read steadily for another hour, the facts indisputable, disaster seemingly unavoidable. I needed to talk to the Council.