The Children of Never_A War Priests of Andrak Saga

by Christian Warren Freed

  Mild as the brutality they’d endured at the hands of the Majj was, neither Quinlan nor Donal felt like speaking for the remainder of the day. Not that either had been afforded the opportunity. Packs of Majj warriors continued hounding them long past the boundaries of the Permital, suggesting they were about to expand their realm. Quinlan viewed this as a bad sign as he forced his steed to go faster. There was an urgent warning hidden in Oonal’s words. One with potential implications for the war priests. It wasn’t what the Majj chieftain said, but what he didn’t. Quinlan couldn’t shake the ominous sensations crawling over his flesh.

  They rode hard, evading the Majj throughout the remainder of the day and stopping only when he was certain the warriors had given up and retreated back to their secluded villages. Quinlan guided them to a small copse of red firs standing alone beside a quiet stream. Open plains surrounded them, stripping would-be attackers of camouflage. The prospect of danger was still real, forcing the war priest to abandon thoughts of a fire. Donal groaned inwardly at the prospect of cold travel rations once again.

  They settled down in silence as the curtain of night began to drape across the land. Quinlan finished his meal of hard biscuits and dried meat, washing it down with water from the stream. Having their horses waiting for them where they escaped from the Permital was a blessing, but one that came with fresh suspicions. What game was the Majj chief playing at? His actions suggested he was seeking allies for the coming war he hinted at.

  There were many strange events occurring across the world, most going unnoticed. The war priests were a force to stand against the uncanny, ready to defend the people from nightmares both real and imagined. Brush wars were a constant source of irritation, for it seemed that mankind had no interest in living in harmony. Quinlan fumed at the ignorance of it. The Omegri threatened to erase humanity from existence, yet still the duchies squabbled and spilled blood in the vain pursuit of dominance.

  “Is everything all right?” Donal asked. He covered his burp with the back of his hand, wincing at the stale flavors reentering his mouth. “Aside from the food, that is.”

  Quinlan forced a smile. He enjoyed his conversations with young Donal, but there were times when solitude was required. “No, Donal. I am plagued by many concerns, none of them need worry you. Yet. Give me some time to process what we have been through. I am troubled but know not why.”

  Donal responded with a nod. He learned long ago to allow his superiors room when they asked for it. Sir Forlei wasn’t a cruel master, but he expected his demands met without question. Snatching up both canteens, Donal stalked off to the stream. The night was crisp and cool. A telltale sign that summer was drawing to a close.

  Night insects began their symphony, a roaring chorus of chirps and whistles that once irritated him. Donal had never been one to enjoy the hard comforts of the wild, not when a soft bed awaited. Life among the war priests changed that opinion. He’d entered Castle Andrak a boy. One Burning Season transformed him into a man, complete with the cynical view many of the priests shared.

  Life wasn’t meant to be lived this way, Donal reflected as he dipped the first canteen into the cold waters. Forlei didn’t deserve his fate. Perhaps none of them did. That was not a factor the Omegri considered, however. They killed with impunity, unfeeling masters of a world that shouldn’t exist. Donal shuddered. He’d given up wondering what life would have been like had he remained at home. Those days were forever lost to him. It was the colors of the war priests now. Or death on Andrak’s walls.

  A splash got his attention. His hand crept to his sword. Eyes scanned the semi-darkness for a threat. The insects fell quiet, leaving him locked in indecision. Donal crouched down and tried to steady his heartrate, while clearing his mind. A confused mind led to defeat, or the wrong decision. A new sound drew his gaze. Water trickled down into the stream. From what? He tracked the sound and was rewarded by a sight he couldn’t have expected.

  “What is your name?” a golden voice asked.

  He swallowed. The nymph stood on the opposite shore five meters away. Water dripped from her naked form. Donal struggled with modesty. Moss and smooth bark stretched across her body where flesh should have been. Her hair was dark green, reminding him of simpler times on endless fields. Leaves and twigs jut out from various places, lending her the appearance of being more elemental than flesh.

  She cocked her head. “Did I not say that right?”

  “N … no. You caught me unawares,” Donal stammered.

  Her laugh was gilded, like the morning sun. He felt warmth in her tone. Quiet warning rose from the back of his mind. Subtle voices begging him to beware. Donal’s hand slipped from his sword.

  “Why are you here? This is not a place for men such as you,” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  She glided into the water, edging closer. Her pose was provocative, lowering his guard as she inched ahead to stand in the middle of the stream. “You should not be here. These are dangerous times. Are you a good man?”

  “Donal,” he uttered. “My name is Donal.”

  “Silly Donal,” she giggled.

  He was amazed how she failed to make a sound as she kept approaching. Donal found her beauty mesmerizing. He couldn’t take his eyes from her. She was within arm’s reach when a brilliant golden light flooded the area. Donal’s arm rose to protect his eyes. An inhuman shriek was followed by a loud splash.

  “These are not safe places, Donal. You should remain aware at all times,” Quinlan admonished as the golden light retreated back into the cross emblazoned on his armor.

  Blinking away the spots in his eyes, Donal asked, “What was that?”

  “An elemental,” Quinlan replied. “They are not wholly dangerous but must be treated with caution. This one was but a step away from you when I arrived.”

  Donal glanced around, able to see again as his night vision slowly returned. “Elemental. I thought they were friendly. Like the one we encountered on the way to Calad Reach.”

  “Donal, there are many forces in this world. Many that we do not yet understand,” Quinlan explained with a sigh. “I cannot confirm this nymph’s intentions, but I suspect she meant you harm.”

  “I am sorry, Brother Quinlan,” Donal bowed his head. Shame echoed in his words.

  “Raise your head, young Donal. There is nothing to be ashamed of,” Quinlan said. “We must each learn our way in this world. You have the potential to become great, should you live long enough.”

  He clapped his novice on the shoulder and stalked back to their campsite. Quinlan stretched out the soreness from riding all day and settled in for a long night. Thoughts of the nymph returning, or something far worse, stayed with him as he drifted off to sleep.

  They were leagues southwest of their camp before either man felt like talking. Quinlan continued his private deliberations on the Majj’s words, while Donal was replaying his encounter with the nymph. Both suffered their individual torments, lost in moments already fading to memory. It was no easy thing to wear the sky blue of the war priests.

  The landscape started to change around midday. Plush, rolling plains of vibrant greens were replaced by gentle hills covered sparsely in yellowed vegetation. Jagged boulders littered the ground for as far as they could see, stretching to the far horizon. Thin clouds scattered across the sky, blocking the sun just enough to leave the land in a chill.

  “Donal, we have entered the duchy of Fent. Whatever dangers prompted the Baron to summon our aid must not be taken for granted,” Quinlan advised. “Do not speak our mission unless it is to the Baron or his appointed representative. There is a good chance the local population does not know what evil has befallen their lands.”

  He understood. “Brother Quinlan, what are we facing? I have not heard of this creature before the Lord General dispatched us.”

  Quinlan cocked his head, approving of the question. Donal’s foresight served him well, further proving Quinlan’s belief that the youth would make
a fine war priest. “The F’talle are rarities in this world. Some scholars claim they come from the Other Realm. Born of nightmares best forgotten, they are creatures of great violence, as well as intelligence. Others believe the F’talle are naught but thieves from childhood fancy. We must be open to anything. Regardless of opinion, the F’talle are demons.”

  “Have you encountered one before?” Donal asked.

  “Thankfully no. They are very rare,” Quinlan answered. “Making them more dangerous than perhaps the Omegri.”

  Donal failed to see how any creature, living or dead, could be worse than the monstrosities of the Omegri. The Other Realm nightmares threatened the world with the promise of unending torments. What more could a F’talle threaten with? During his time in Castle Andrak, Donal had witnessed a monster born from smoke. Giant lizards with animal heads. Savage giants with skin of diamond. All trying to breach the walls and extinguish the Purifying Flame deep within the castle’s bowels. Kill the light and darkness won.

  “We should have come across a village by now,” Quinlan thought aloud.

  Gone were the great herds roaming the plains. This land wasn’t conducive to maintaining their size. Quinlan was reminded of the northern continent, where he’d once served the light. Smaller mammals popped up from holes, jerking and twisting their heads to watch the riders. Large winged birds burst from outcroppings to land in the thin trees with wide canopies. The air smelled dry, arid.

  Donal glanced at the dust clouds kicked up by their horses. “Why would anyone choose to live here? This is the closest to a desert I have seen.”

  “Not everyone has the ability to choose where they live, Donal. Others are not as fortunate as the upper class.”

  Unsure if he was being rebuked, Donal asked, “There are inherent freedoms granted to each man and woman.”

  “God given,” Quinlan agreed. “But there are rulers who only know strength through force. They keep their people subservient so that they may continue to serve their masters. Humanity is not as unified as it should be.”

  “If they only knew of the dangers of the Omegri, they wouldn’t be as obstinate,” Donal offered.

  “True, but many do not wish to know of the dangers lurking beyond the edge of vision.”

  “Why would anyone wish to remain ignorant of the truth?” Donal failed to understand. “I saw much of the world come through my father’s shop. How many of them knew what awaited? Would their lives change if they knew of the Omegri?”

  “You have good foresight, Donal, but do not let that drag into circles of confusion,” Quinlan said. “There is something to be said for self-imposed ignorance. How would a person react if they discovered they weren’t the top of the food chain? That monsters do exist and they are coming to kill us all? Do not be so quick to judge. Were I not a war priest, I do not believe I would want to learn of the Omegri.”

  They kept riding, eager to end their travels and be about their purpose. Donal spied the approaching riders first. The war priests halted upon seeing the black and purple armor of Fent. Six men, each armed with lances and swords, hurried up the slope to where the priests waited. Quinlan thought it best to avoid confrontation with the people they’d come to assist.

  “Keep your hands where we can see them,” their leader said, as he drew near. “Don’t touch those weapons either. What is your business in Fent?”

  Hands on his saddle pommel, Quinlan leaned forward and said, “I am Brother Quinlan of Castle Andrak. This is my novice, Donal Sawq. We come at the behest of your liege, Baron Einos.”

  “A war priest,” a second man uttered.

  Quinlan gave a curt nod. “Indeed, but that is irrelevant until I speak with the Baron. We are more than capable of riding to the castle on our own, but it would be faster should you detail a man to guide us. We are, after all, strangers in this land.”

  The sergeant stared aghast. War priests were people of legend, not mortal beings walking the hills and fields of his home. “My apologies, Priest. You shall have an escort for as long as you desire. Welcome to Fent.”

  Quinlan thanked him and followed the young guard assigned to him. The village of Fent lay ahead, and with it, the mysteries of the F’talle and the Grey Wanderer. Quinlan’s mood improved the deeper into the duchy they rode. The clouds parted and the sun streamed down. He knew it was an illusion, however, for dark things often lurked just beyond the edge of sunlight, waiting for the unsuspecting to lower their guard. Quinlan couldn’t help but wonder what dark nightmares awaited him.

  SIXTEEN

  Fent

  “Baron Einos, the war priest has arrived.”

  Einos glanced up from the reports recently arrived from Palis. Anger flashed across his face before he gained control and turned to the page. Nothing Kastus reported was good, leaving Einos in a soured mood. Each day he failed to discover Brogon Lord meant another that his people were forced to live under the blanket of fear. Already traffic in the city had fallen off. Parents refused to allow their children outside, often keeping them under armed guard in what was supposed to be the security of their own homes. Fear gripped the duchy as word of the missing children continued to spread. Hands tied by circumstance, Einos knew that nothing short of stopping Lord would restore order to his duchy.

  “Where is he?”

  The page stiffened, as if worried he faced reprimand. “Baron, he is being escorted to the castle as we speak.”

  A grunt. “Keep me informed of his arrival. I will meet him in my parlor.”

  The page bowed, turned and left. His slippered feet barely made a sound. Einos had grown up in the castle, destined to assume the burdens of leadership after his father passed, but he had never grown accustomed to being served by so many. Freedom was a curious thing, he mused. No time for delay, he hurried to his private chambers and slipped out of his informal robes. No doubt the war priest was expecting crown and scepter.

  Doubts suddenly gripped him. Einos wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing. If word of his troubles got out into the other duchies, there was the potential for catastrophic damages to his people. Trade would be cut off. Embargoes on caravans and craftsmen enacted. Fent would be severed from the rest of the continent, with no one to turn to for help. He slammed a balled fist into his palm. Damn Kastus for not reporting back with positive results.

  “Aneth!” he shouted as he entered his wardrobe. “It is time. The war priest is here.”

  No answer. Confused, he searched the complex of rooms for her, not stopping until he discovered she was still in bed.

  “Did you not hear me call?” he asked, his voice softer, gentler. “The war priest has arrived.”

  Aneth smiled. A strained act. “Forgive me, husband, but my body is not agreeing with my mind this day. I think I will remain here and rest.”

  Einos accepted that the baby came first, though it chaffed him to know that he was going to face the most powerful order on the continent alone.

  As if sensing his dilemma, Aneth added, “Summon Lizette. She is more than adequate to handle this situation.”

  “That woman is becoming a burden on my conscience,” he grumbled.

  The longer Lizette remained in the castle, the more she inserted herself into daily affairs. Not that she wasn’t capable. Einos found her brilliant in many matters. Perhaps it was guilt that gave him pause. Guilt that he hadn’t been able to find her daughter. Guilt that he was forced to look into her searching eyes every day and feel the pain of loss reflecting back. Yet another reminder that he wasn’t up to the task at hand.

  “She is becoming the one woman who can run this castle, and the duchy, and you know it,” Aneth chided. “Lizette must have time to grieve, on her terms. Allow her some time, love. She may prove more useful than all of your advisors combined.”

  He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “You don’t know how true that sentiment is. I’ll have food sent up once I finish meeting this defender of the world.”

  Aneth’s face darkened. “Remember, yo
u were the one who summoned him.”

  He forced a grin. “Where would I be without you?”

  “I can only imagine. Now go. Best not keep our guest waiting.”

  Einos watched the two men cross the short hall and enter his parlor. Neither was impressive to look upon. They wore simple riding clothes, with no sign of their station. Curious. One would assume the war priests would flaunt their tokens so as to keep the population in awe as they went about their business. The elements of their legend combined to form impossible ideations. What strode into his presence was anything but the haughty, powerful priests of his imagination.

  They walked with humble steps. Each man well aware of their lot in life and what that represented to others. There was no avoiding the reasons for their arrival, yet they showed nothing of the arrogance Einos thought them filled with. No matter how long he lived, or what sights he was granted, he’d come to understand that the world was not what he once thought.

  “Baron Einos,” the priest said with a clipped bow. “I am Brother Quinlan. This is my novice, Donal. Lord General Rosca dispatched us to assist with your dilemma.”

  “Welcome to Fent,” Einos said. The words felt wrong, like sand scraping flesh.

  His reservations were rooted deep, the product of years of belief. Einos struggled to maintain decorum, for tension thickened the air. For their part, the war priests stood with hands folded before them. Neither assuming or aggressive. They had been summoned and had come with all haste to help solve a problem no one in Fent was capable of. That he was forced to seek outside assistance continued to sit ill. Now that the war priests had arrived, he found he wished they hadn’t come.

  They stood, staring blankly for a time in silence. Einos broke first, unable to match the intensity of the awkwardness. “Gentlemen, please sit.”

  They did. Quinlan placed his hands on his thighs and leaned back into the cushioned chair. It felt good to be out of the saddle and among civilization again, despite the unspoken hostility filling the parlor.