Free Rigante Series 04 - Stormrider by David Gemmell Page A

not. Unless scaled flesh has become fashionable in the cities.'
    'What you see in your dreams is their spirit form. You have heard of the Orb of Kranos?'
    'Of course,' answered Mulgrave. 'A mythic vase or some such from ancient times.'
    'No, not a vase,' said Ermal. 'Some say it was a globe of crystal through which men could see their futures. Others claim it was the magical pommel stone of a great sword. There is even a legend that it is the severed head of a necromancer. The Dezhem Bek were said to be guardians of the Orb. It made them near immortal.'
    'I am not a great believer in magic,' said Mulgrave. 'I do not mock men who have faith. It gives them comfort, and oft times leads them to help others. Yet I have also seen great evils committed in the name of the Source. And never have I witnessed a miracle. Until I do I shall remain sceptical.'
    'I cannot argue with that,' said Ermal Standfast. 'Nor will I try. What I will say is that I have heard rumours that the Orb was hidden in Shelsans. The Knights of the Sacrifice found it.'
    Mulgrave sighed. 'My father used to talk of a great secret that was guarded in Shelsans. But then he used to tell many wonderful stories, fabulously embellished. He said that it was vital that we all learned to love. He said that love made friends of enemies and enriched the world. I wonder if he still believed that when the knights came and massacred those he loved.'
    'Let us hope that he did,' said Ermal, softly.

    Ermal Standfast had been a priest now for twenty-two years. He was loved within his community, for his sermons were gentle and often witty, and he was not judgemental with his flock. Also his fame as a healer was widespread, and many of his parishioners owed their life to what they perceived as his talent for herbal cures. It was this fame that had led Gaise Macon to bring the dying Mulgrave to him.
    All in all the little priest should have been content - even proud of what he had achieved in Shelding during these last twenty-two years.
    But even had Ermal been given to prideful thoughts, he would no longer be able to sustain them. He felt this strongly as he sat in his small living room, staring into the fading fire. Mulgrave was asleep upstairs, and the house - save for a few creaks from the ageing timbers - was silent.
    'You are worse than a fraud,' Ermal told himself. 'You are a liar and a coward. You are a weak and loathsome man.' He felt close to tears as he sat in his deep armchair, a blanket around his thin shoulders.
    Over the years he had gathered some knowledge of herbs, but all of his concoctions were actually based on camomile and cider vinegar, with just an occasional dash of mustard. There was no lasting medicinal benefit to be obtained from any of them. Ermal's talent came from within. When he laid hands upon the sick he could heal them. He would close his eyes and know what ailed them, and he could either draw it out or boost the patients' own defence mechanisms, causing them to heal themselves. At first he had kept this gift entirely secret. This was not originally out of fear, but more from a natural shyness and a desire to remain unnoticed. He did not want people to stare at him and consider him different. He did not wish to be unusual or special. As a youngster Ermal had desired comfortable anonymity. As he grew older - and more inclined towards the spiritual - he had felt that his gift should be put to use helping people. It took him a little time to come up with the idea of herbalism as a disguise for his talents. It seemed such a small lie, and one for which he believed the Source would forgive him. After all, was it not the Source who had made him shy and humble? On top of that there was the memory of his father - an equally shy man. 'Do good in secret, Ermal,' he had said. His donations to charity were always made anonymously, or through a trusted intermediary who would not divulge the origin of the good fortune. 'All that we have comes from the Source,'