The Children of Never_A War Priests of Andrak Saga

by Christian Warren Freed

  They swept leagues of land over the course of two days, searching caves and deep forests. Thus far, they’d found nothing to suggest their quarry was anywhere in the region, further disheartening the squad. Sava pushed them on. He’d left his walking stick behind, but managed to find a thicker, greener branch to utilize. Anything to keep his men comfortable.

  Disappointment prompted Sava to push the patrol longer than it was meant to last. He couldn’t return to Palis without results. Thep would be furious, but Sava learned long ago that it was better to ask forgiveness than permission. The hallmark of every good sergeant was the inherent ability to accomplish tasks with minimal supervision. Sava was considered one of the best in their army. A compliment he would take to the grave.

  Dusk was settling in a slow crawl Sava found soothing. His calves burned from the endless marching. Blisters formed on his feet, but the curtain of night dropping eased his worries. It felt like the daily cleansing of his soul. He never spoke of it to anyone. How could they understand? Sava was the meanest man in the army. To learn he was soothed by nature would evoke unending laughter.

  Undaunted, Sava enjoyed his moment. He ordered them to resume the movement only when he was satisfied the sun was well below the horizon. A chorus of groans echoed his orders. Sava left them to their complaining. Armies moved on gripes. They were far enough away from civilization that he wasn’t worried about it.

  “Sergeant Sava! I spotted movement ahead,” Burgil, the youngest ranker started to shout before remembering his training.

  Sava’s right arm shot up, fist clenched. Those nearest stopped immediately and took a knee. A rippling effect followed until they were all crouched to reduce their silhouettes. The moon was still out of sight, forcing them to adjust to the semi-darkness. Sava scurried forward to where Burgil was pointing. This late in the evening, every tree or bush was a potential enemy waiting in ambush. They were also harmless and slowed operations to a crawl.

  “Where?” he whispered. Sava wasn’t one to take unnecessary chances.

  Burgil eased forward another step and pointed to the right. “There, behind that stand of trees. Whatever I saw was large, bigger than a man.”

  “Are you sure?” Night played havoc on a soldier’s mind.

  “Enough,” Burgil replied.

  That was enough for Sava. He had the squad on line, in battle order. Crossbows flanked him. Long swords protected the ends. Satisfied all was in order, he led them forward. Rocks crunched underfoot. Boots sank into soft dirt and random spots of mud. Every sound was amplified, threatening to give their position away.

  A twig snapped, forcing Sava to glare. About to dress the soldier down, Sava froze in place when an explosion of energies lit the night sky. Burgil was blown off his feet. Others staggered. Arrows flew.

  “Ceasefire! What was that?” Sava bellowed.

  A second explosion, this one bright green, shredded trees. Sava spied a man-sized figure flying back to crash into a boulder. Dust and stone billowed around him.

  “Close ranks. Full circle!” Sava ordered.

  Soldiers hurried into position. The jangle of armor shifting reassuring. They advanced in step. Whatever awaited was about to meet Fent steel. Sava swiveled into the point position. He was going to be the first to engage. A monstrosity emerged from the night, halting the circle in muted fright.

  Taller, bulkier than any man, the creature was green with unkempt hair the color of blackest night. Sava caught the scent of warm urine from one of his men. He didn’t blame him. There was no reason for this monster’s existence. He was about to order the attack when a scarier image charged at the monster. It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the low light, but Sava could determine the second, smaller creature was a man. A decomposing man.

  “Got you, bastard,” he muttered. “That’s our target! Ignore the green thing and take down that dead man! Attack!”

  The soldiers of Fent roared and charged across the final twenty meters. Crossbows, already reloaded, thrummed. Both arrows struck Brogon, penetrating deep into desiccated flesh where they remained. Enraged, Brogon drew his sword and turned on the soldiers. Sava broke free, sword in both hands, and met the once dead man alone. Sparks showered over his gloved hands as swords clashed. Sava was bigger, stronger, but Brogon was faster. He blocked a blow aimed at his head and drove his elbow into Sava’s face. Cartilage crunched and Sava reeled back with a broken nose.

  Bolts of green-yellow energy blasted from the green monster and struck Brogon in the face and chest. The once dead man howled and leapt at the monster. A massive staff, easily the size of a man, swung out to catch him in midair. Velocity swept Brogon away from the battlefield.

  The green monster looked down on the soldiers of Fent with blazing yellow eyes. “Go, this is not your battle.”

  His muscles bulged. They could see rivers of power running through his veins. A musky stench choked the air. Men and women gagged. The green monster clicked his tusks together and stormed after Brogon Lord. His message was delivered. Burgil and one other helped their dazed sergeant up and started the long retreat back to Palis. Sava grumbled for the first third of a league before relenting. He was forced to admit his squad was no match for the green monster.

  They halted far from the battle. Flashes of green light continued to march across northern Fent. It was a sight Sava hoped to never see again. His vision swam. Blood caked his chin, staining his tunic and armor. Every time he tried to speak, jets of pain lance through his head.

  “Sergeant Sava, what was that thing?” Gurri asked. Her sword lay across her right shoulder. Her chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath.

  “What just happened?”

  “Will they come back?”

  Sava shrugged off Burgil, and reaching deep into his trouser pocket, produced a pinch of kaapa leaves. He shoved them in the corner of his mouth and felt near instant satisfaction. Too many questions. Sava made a quick headcount, surprised to find all of them present.

  “That was a nasty surprise if I ever seen one,” he said, wincing with each syllable. “What you just saw was an impossible battle between our quarry, Brogon Lord, and one of the Sclarem. Remember this night, kiddies. Remember it and pray you never have another like it. The bowels of the underworld are alive and well in Fent.”

  As one, they stared off in the direction of the fading blasts of power.

  FOURTEEN

  Castle Fent

  Einos found difficulty in believing in ghosts after a lifetime of disbelief. Folk tales belonged among the people, not among the ranks of leadership expected to guide them through the trials life offered. Weeks had gone by and the memory of seeing Tabith sitting in his bedroom continued to bother him. What could not exist, should not exist.

  The confliction drove current policy. Einos spent hours mired in the examination of his beliefs, knowing the monster that was Brogon Lord was reaping a terrible toll across his small duchy. That similar incidents might be occurring throughout the lands never entered his thoughts. Grieving families petitioned him daily, forcing his waking hours to see to their comfort, such that he could offer, while hoping Kastus and the army found success in the field.

  Faint streaks of light streamed through the bank of hazy clouds to strike his back. Einos felt no warmth, however, for he stood before the empty hearth staring down at where he saw the ghost. The Baron of Fent liked to think he was a practical man, void of the superstitious nonsense gripping his population. Hands clasped behind his back, Einos frowned. The red and gold of his robes were at odds with the drab grey floor.

  “Husband, you worry yourself to no end,” Aneth chided from behind.

  He hadn’t heard her glide into the room. Einos erased the look of consternation before turning. “Beloved, were these not such troubling times, I would have no reason to worry.”

  Her hands slid over his broad shoulders, burrowing into the softness of the fabric. “Do you truly suppose you saw Lizette’s daughter?”

  “I don’t
know what I saw. A vision perhaps. A glimpse into the future or even the past? I do not pretend to know all that happens in the natural world.”

  “There was nothing natural about what you saw,” Aneth said. “The wall between realms must be thin for children to return.”

  He grunted, unwilling to commit further answer.

  Sensing his mounting frustration, Aneth placed her head on his back. “We will get through this.”

  Einos reached a hand up to cover hers. “I know, though I fear how much more we will lose before the end.”

  They stood like that for a time. Affairs of state robbed him of much quality time with his wife. Time he should have given to developing his family. Such was the burden of leadership. Einos sighed, feeling some of the weight slip away. He wished for simpler times, but wishes were akin to the supernatural. Neither was meant to reach fruition.

  “What news of the war priests? Has the Lord General dispatched anyone?” Aneth asked after a time.

  “I can only assume,” Einos slipped from her embrace to face her. “Rosca is not known for his endearing personality. There is every chance he has deployed one of his priests, but no way of knowing unless he sent a messenger bird.”

  “Or the priest arrives,” she finished.

  He nodded. A faraway look clouded his eyes. First the appearance of ghosts and a F’talle ranging his lands. Now comes the war priests and their unnatural ways. Ways he believed the world would be better off without. Einos snorted after realizing his views were close to Kastus’s. The man was a boon companion and quality leader, but his distrust of the war priests was borderline hatred. Obsession came to mind.

  “Lizette is waiting downstairs,” Aneth mentioned. They’d become friends over the past few weeks. It was a friendship born of mutual loss.

  Einos closed his eyes.

  “I can meet with her if you like,” she suggested.

  His posture told her Einos wasn’t up to entertaining his newest staff member. Self-appointed staff member. Forceful woman. Still, I suppose there is much to be said for having strength around me.

  “That would be a welcome kindness,” Einos admitted. “Thank you.”

  She edged up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Of course, husband.”

  She was almost at the door when he called, “Aneth, I love you.”

  She flashed a grin. “I know,” and slipped away.

  Lizette felt like she was losing her grip on reality. Sanity threatened to abandon her the more she studied the map marking all the abductions. She snorted. Murders. None of the children had been seen again, save for the spike in ghost sightings. Any hope of seeing Tabith again was lost. Shattered upon the stone. Lizette was finally alone in the world. A listless woman with no future and only a fragmented past. At least until she found solace in comforting other families who had endured similar loss.

  Fent was much smaller than most of the other duchies, providing an intimate community where everyone knew each other. Lizette imagined life was somewhat different here in the capital, but the smaller villages and communities clung together. She liked that. The notion that all were one, felt right. She now had the opportunity to unite others, to make a difference.

  Einos had different views, or so she assumed. The Baron was polite and tolerated her more than she expected, but there was a limit to his generosity. Paramount to his designs was finding and stopping Brogon Lord. The once dead man was a plague upon the duchy. Fent lingered on the edge of panic. The people were scared. Revolutions began from less.

  “I thought to find you here.”

  Lizette struggled to suppress her sigh. She hadn’t wished to be disturbed. “Good morning, Baroness.”

  Aneth waved off the formality. “Hush. It is only the two of us. Let us leave titles for my husband. We can be ladies here. Friends.”

  To a woman like Lizette, who had only seen the Baron from a distance before her plight, speaking with royalty on equal terms was astounding. She was a commoner. A face in the crowd. “Old habits are hard to break.”

  “They are. As we are all discovering,” Aneth slid forward to grab Lizette by the arm and guided her away. “I am pleased to see you settling into your new role. This castle needs more strong women. Too many men spoil matters and the conversation is drool.”

  “Where are we heading, Aneth?” Lizette forced the name out.

  The Baroness smiled in return. Genuine, warm. “I wish to show you my favorite part of the castle. All know of it, yet none are permitted to enter unless my permission is given.”

  Visions of being cast into the deepest dungeon flashed past, leaving Lizette confused.

  “Problems?” Aneth asked.

  Embarrassment flushed her face. “No, I fear I am still finding difficulty in this transition.”

  Truthfully, she endured long hours in the darkest night lamenting her losses. Staff often whispered of hearing a woman’s sobs. Lizette was trapped in an impossible duality. Broken internally, she presented a fierce, determined stance in front of others. The pain continued to lessen, if only just.

  They continued walking in silence. Aneth was at a loss for words. She had no comparable experience, other than the knowledge of too many families suffering similar fates. It was her hope that she might alleviate some of that pain this morning by showing Lizette her secret place. She lurched suddenly, bracing a hand against the wall to keep from falling.

  “Aneth! Are you all right?” Lizette almost shouted.

  The Baroness nodded, eyes filled with amazement. “The baby. I felt it move!”

  Lizette became lost in the moment. She reached out to touch Aneth’s stomach. “That is wonderful!”

  For a moment, thoughts of hardship and sorrow dissipated. They were two women celebrating life.

  Midmorning was always Einos’s favorite time. The sun was up and warming the world, yet not hot enough to prove uncomfortable. Today, however, there was no joy. He stood over the empty grave, peering down as if to make Brogon Lord’s body magically reappear. The matter had drawn on long enough and was now threatening to stall progress.

  Two others accompanied him. One was old, borderline decrepit. His robes were in tatters and stained from too many years without a proper cleaning. Grime caked under unhealthy nails. Lines trailed out from the corners of his eyes. Eyes showing remarkable clarity. Rail thin, the man stood with hunched shoulders.

  “Tender Cannandal, are you ready to begin?” Einos asked.

  His distaste for the tender of the dead was plain on his face. Speaking to the dead twisted a man, rendering him incapable of interacting with others in a normal fashion. Einos made sure to stand away from the man. He would have like to have said it was out of respect, but the truth was much darker. Tenders were to be feared.

  Cannandal waved. “Yes, yes! Begin now is best. Ill powers linger here.”

  The second man stepped back. His hawkish glare diminished when confronted by the insanity the Tender presented. In contrast, his clothing was of the finest material. He presented a well-kept, manicured appearance. Coal black hair tapered down the back of his neck, ending in a neat line at the collar. A thin cape, as was the fashion in the larger duchies, hung limp in the windless morning.

  “Baron, is this necessary?” his voice was deep, grinding on the ears.

  “I would have us do all that is possible before the war priests arrive, Merchant Giles.” Einos wasn’t certain which one he liked less. One helped the dead move, on while the other busied fleecing pockets in the name of social advancements. He’d never felt more trapped.

  “This man offends me,” Giles insisted.

  If Cannandal was offended in return, he failed to show it.

  Einos glared. “Begin if you please, Tender.”

  Cannandal nodded, his focus on the grave. The elderly man knelt and placed his hands on the grave’s edge. His finger burrowed into the soft earth. Moments passed without anything happening. Einos grew concerned. Then it happened. Minor vibrations in the ground. Hairs standing
on end. Einos felt the urge to urinate as his innards shook and twisted. Eldritch magic.

  Giles turned and retched as the Tender continued. Smoke drifted up from his collar. His flesh sizzled from unnatural heat. The world blurred. Einos thought he heard moans, supernatural wailing coming from the depths of the earth. Ethereal hands reached up, desperate to gain purchase in the realm of the living where they were no longer welcome. And then it was over. Cannandal withdrew his hands. Blood seeped from his fingertips.

  “Were you successful?” Einos asked. His vision swam, threatening to nauseate him.

  The Tender kept his gaze to the ground. The shame of failure preventing him from speaking. It was that moment Einos knew the once dead man was not vanquished. That he yet walked the world in search of fresh souls and that Fent was not going to find succor until the war priests arrived. If they arrived.

  “This was all for nothing,” Giles spat, hands on his knees. “I invested a lot of money in this endeavor, Baron. I expect to be compensated.”

  Heartless prick. Einos could have censured the man, claiming the funds as his due for the greater good of the duchy. Doing so would spark riots between the state and merchant guild. Fent was already small, engaging in a war with the most powerful faction in the land would ruin him, condemning future generations to poverty, or worse.

  “You will be, Merchant Giles. All in due course,” Einos ground out. Were he a lesser man, he might have cast Giles into the dungeons. Instead, the merchant was a demon he was forced to endure. Some battles weren’t worth the effort.

  “Baron Einos! A rider has returned from Palis!” the herald shouted as he ran up the dirt lane.

  Einos jerked his head, eyes ablaze with hope. “Show me.”

  He prayed that this would be the end of the once dead man and the ills plaguing his duchy.

  FIFTEEN

  North of Fent