The Children of Never_A War Priests of Andrak Saga

by Christian Warren Freed

  “The Lord General tells me you have experience a F’talle,” he began.

  Einos ground his teeth. Images of the empty grave, mothers crying, and his own encounter with the apparition in his bedchambers swirled to collide with his disturbed emotions. He was a man lost, unsure which way to turn or what the proper decision was.

  “That was but the beginning of our troubles,” he said. “Fent is largely innocuous. We are small enough to remain insignificant among the Council of Lords. We have no standing army of note due to our location and the bond we’ve forged with our neighbors. This duchy is as peaceful as you can imagine. Until now.”

  He stalked to the empty chair opposite the priests and sank down. Einos cracked his knuckles, the sound crisp and echoing. “Rumors of the Grey Wanderer have been circulating for the last few weeks. I point out that there have been no confirmed sightings, just whispers on the fringes.”

  “What do you believe?” Quinlan interrupted.

  “Me? That we are cursed. The day after the Wanderer shows up, we are mired in reports of missing children and a man risen from the grave. I tell you I have no desire to have a once dead man roaming my lands, Einos snarled. “The people are panicked. Many have bolted their doors, refusing to come out until the matter is solved. My duchy is slowly transforming into a dark land where nightmares are the currency.”

  “We have encountered these types of events before, Baron,” Quinlan reassured him. “Have faith, we shall rid your lands of this once dead man and any spawn the Grey Wanderer has left behind.”

  Einos went from Quinlan to Donal and then back. “How? I already have a hundred of my best soldiers deployed to the countryside. Armed patrols have tripled since the first reported incident and still children are coming up missing. What can the fabled war priests of Andrak do that my men have not?”

  Quinlan shifted his lower jaw, careful not to betray his ire. “We are well versed in handling nightmares, Baron. The Burning Season finds us besieged by the creatures of the Omegri, and the Other Realm.”

  “I lack your confidence,” Einos replied, rising to begin pacing. “Between the Wanderer, the once dead man, and the ghosts, I fear there is no clear direction in which to begin.”

  “Ghosts?” Donal uncharacteristically spoke.

  Amused, Einos said, “The squire has a tongue, eh? Yes, lad. Ghosts. I saw one in my very bedchamber. A little girl with no eyes.”

  “There must be some relation between these events,” Quinlan passed Donal a frown. “Have others witnessed the apparitions?”

  “Several, I believe,” Einos said after some thought. He poured three glasses of honeyed liquor from the decanter on the table in the corner of the room and offered one to each of them. “The ghosts are the least of my concerns. They haven’t harmed anyone, not like Brogon Lord. Find him and you end this mystery.”

  Quinlan concealed his wince as the harsh liquid bit the back of his throat. Brogon Lord. Now he had a name. a starting point. “I would like to begin at once. May we meet with your records keeper?”

  The Baron of Fent nodded and downed his glass. He had a feeling it was going to be a long day.

  Donal stifled his yawn as dust crawled up his nose. His eyes burned from the strain. Night had fallen and they were mired with obscure records and documents pertaining to every aspect of life in Fent. Not the thrills of standing the walls during the Burning Season. He was bored, and tired. Almost willing to trade this tedium for life back in the saddle. On the other hand, the food was good and there was plenty to drink. Baron Einos might not appreciate them being in his duchy, but he was sparing no expense for quality.

  Disappointed with yet another book filled with the theories of architectural design by the men who built the main castle, Donal shoved the manuscript back into the pile and sighed. His gaze lingered on the growing stack of scrolls and books that had nothing to do with their quest. Now decidedly larger than the stack of unread books, Donal wondered how record keepers lived with themselves. Alcohol was his answer. Nothing else made sense.

  “Have you found anything, Brother Quinlan?” he asked.

  Quinlan raised a finger and continued reading. He flipped the page, sending a puff of dust across the ancient wooden table. The center of the table sagged, threatening to snap at any moment. That didn’t surprise Donal. Everything about Fent felt as if it was too old for the modern world. Finished, Quinlan closed the book and leaned back. His chair creaked.

  “What did you ask, Donal?”

  “If you had found any clues to help us,” he replied.

  Quinlan pursed his lips. “Nothing. There has never been a similar event in Fent’s past, making this a remarkable situation.”

  Remarkable? Donal would have chosen another word, one with more import than that. They were facing an undead man and the world’s greatest supernatural entity and all Quinlan could theorize was that it was remarkable. Donal learned long ago not to vouch for others, but he was fairly certain Quinlan was as frightened as he was. The only difference being the older priest would never let it be known.

  “I think we are done here,” Quinlan said and rose to stretch. His muscles ached from so many days in the saddle, a sad reminder that he’d been kept inside Andrak too long.

  Donal praised the words, hoping that their next task was to find the kitchens. His stomach growled from neglect. They hadn’t eaten in the time it took a candle to burn down. Loath as he was to ask, Donal did the right thing. “Where should we look next?”

  “That, Donal, is a good question,” Quinlan answered. “I think it is time for nourishment. Maybe we can think better on full stomachs.”

  Those were the best words Donal had heard since arriving in Fent.

  A slender woman interrupted their meal well before either had the chance to dig in. She bore a severe look, much too harsh for one so young. Quinlan stood as she approached, prompting a sulking Donal to do the same. With no one else in the kitchens, there was little doubt who she had come to see. Rather than smile or stand on ceremony, she took a seat and waited for them to follow.

  “You are the war priests,” she said. Blunt, matter-of-factly.

  “Brother Quinlan.”

  She nodded. “Good. I am Lizette.”

  “You are one of the children’s mothers,” he grasped.

  Another nod. “One of the first. Indeed, the first to bring it to the Baron’s attention.”

  Quinlan wiped his mouth. “We grieve for your loss, but what brings you here? To us?”

  “Einos has appointed me one of his special liaisons with the community. I send my days in meetings with parents of missing children and helping coordinate search efforts across the duchy.”

  “A worthy title,” Quinlan said.

  “It is, but I want more,” she replied. “All is not as it appears in Fent. There are strange goings on that none can explain. It is all well and fine to place blame on the Grey Wanderer, but none have witnessed him.”

  “You suspect something more sinister,” Quinlan ventured.

  “I do, and I am hoping the two of you are up to the task of discovering what, or who.” Lizette snatched a sliver of roast venison from his plate. “The Baron is a good man, as are most of his people, but I refuse to believe this once dead man capable of creating so much mischief without help.”

  Quinlan wasn’t ready to explore the possibility that Brogon Lord was working in conjunction with men and women in Fent. Her suggestion led them toward a dark train of thought. “Why have you come to me, Lizette? There is but limited jurisdiction for the Order. Einos should be told of your suspicions.”

  She leaned conspiratorially close and said, “I am here because the Baron has made me the go between for you. Anything you need to help your investigation.”

  Quinlan couldn’t believe his ears. She wasn’t a spy, per say, but was close enough to open every locked door in Fent. His task just became easier, thanks to the fury of a mother scorned. “What do you propose?”

  He and Donal finis
hed their meals as Lizette described every detail she had in mind.

  SEVENTEEN

  Palis

  “Ouch! Watch what you’re doing, you daft bastard,” Sava growled.

  The company surgeon ignored him and continued to shift his nose and face around in his quest to find broken bones. Sava glared the entire time. The embarrassment of his failure, in front of his men no less, against the once dead man fueled the wells of his rage. He wanted to rearm and head back in search of Brogon Lord with all haste. Unfortunately, none of his commanders felt the same.

  They’d been confined to Palis and the surrounding area, a swath of land little wider than a river, to conduct presence patrols. He was under strict orders to avoid confrontation. Sava didn’t think Thep was a coward, but the captain wasn’t showing the spine necessary for the occasion. His frustrations compounded every time he passed one of the squad who’d been there. Sava hadn’t heard even the slightest snicker, but he knew they whispered about him behind his back. As if his lengthy career was naught but a laughingstock.

  The surgeon stepped away and wiped his hands on a soiled rag. “We are done, Sergeant. Please do us both the favor of getting out of my sight. I’ve had my fill of you today.”

  “With pleasure,” Sava growled.

  Strapping his weapon belt on, the sergeant stalked out of the tent and into the village of Palis. They’d been here for little over a week and he already despised the place. Not only was there nothing to do, they were forbidden from drinking. Take away a soldier’s entertainment and the option to drink away their pains, and you were left with a recipe for trouble.

  It started small. A disagreement between friends that led to fists. An enraged father protesting to Captain Thep over one of the lad’s coming on to his daughter. Sava snorted at that. He’d grown up in a farming community and knew the innocent reputation farmer’s daughters tended to cluster behind. He’d be upset, too, but what did the leadership expect? These men and women were stationed near the Baron’s castle and all the excitement life brought. Throwing them to the obscurity of the countryside was the worst possible outcome. It was only going to get worse.

  Soldiers greeted him in passing but none remained to speak with him. Sava’s reputation as a hard case was well deserved. The army, any army, was meant to be rigid. Soldiers weren’t supposed to be nice. After all, how could any man or woman go willingly into battle, knowing they were going to kill or die, without transforming into a hard shell? He’d done his share of fighting but had only killed seven men. That lack of severity wasn’t shameful. Sava attributed it to the professionalism and reputation of his army. Fent was one of the most secure duchies in the land. A mark of pride he hung his career on.

  Consumed with the past, Sava stumbled upon his two favorite soldiers. “Both of you! Over here, now.”

  Nils and Alfar hurried over, neither pleased with being caught unawares. The last time Sava snagged them, they wound up on guard duty from dusk til dawn. Sava glared at them, noting their disheveled appearance and filthy boots. Neither looked to have shaved in days. Grimacing at the lack of standards, Sava grumbled under his breath, prompting both to straighten their backs, hands clasped behind.

  “What are you miscreants doing?” Sava snapped. He reached into a pocket, in a well-rehearsed move, produced a pouch of fresh kappa leaves, and stuff a pinch into his lower lip. The red juice trickled down his lip. “I asked a question.”

  Alfar closed his mouth after Nils shot him a withering glare from the corner of his eye. “We wasn’t up to anything, Sergeant. Just waiting for dinner chow.”

  “That’s a long time away,” Sava grew suspicious. “What game are you playing at?”

  “No game, Sergeant. Honest.”

  Sava took a step closer. “I don’t like games. Games are for children, not soldiers in the Baron’s service.”

  Alfar broke. “We met a girl. Pretty lass with flowing gol…”

  “A girl!” Sava roared. Several nearby soldiers scurried away lest they, too, get swallowed by his rage. “This isn’t a time to meet a girl! Especially not one of these villagers. I ought to have you both hung for dereliction of duty! Get your gear and report back here before I count to fifty, or I’ll skin your hides and feed you to the pigs. Move!”

  Later that night, during their twelfth rotation around the village, Nils punched Alfar in the shoulder. “You just had to open your mouth. We met a girl. Idiot.”

  The younger soldier kept his mouth shut and kept marching, never mind the pebble in the bottom of his right boot. He’d deal with the pain later.

  Kastus emptied his mug of water and stared at the wall they’d converted into a map. Several charcoal marks scored the wall, each an indicator of Brogon Lord sightings. There was no discernable pattern, nothing to suggest the once dead man was moving in a logical manner. Frustrated, Kastus walked away.

  Making matter worse, there’d been no sign of their quarry since the encounter with the sclarem, if that report was to be taken as truth. Kastus still doubted one of the mythical shamans was roaming the Fent wilderness, though, he reluctantly admitted, all manner of strange creatures were at play in his duchy.

  “Coffee, Constable?”

  Kastus accepted the mug from Thep with a tight grin. He was too disturbed to give thanks.

  “Have any new reports come in while I was gone?” the captain asked.

  “No. It is as if Brogon Lord has disappeared again,” Kastus replied. Leaving us standing with our trousers around our ankles. I can’t go back to the Baron like this. “We remain too far behind our prey. Unless something changes, a break, we will be forced to return to the Baron in defeat.”

  “It is still early,” Thep said. “Some good may come of this. I’ve discovered a little more on our potential traitor on the council.”

  Kastus perked up. It was the first bit of good news he’d heard in days. “Which one?”

  “Not the one we initially thought. Rumors of Waern dealing with other duchies has reached me. It seems our esteemed councilman is operating outside of his jurisdiction and possibly against the best interests of Fent.”

  “Are you certain? What proof is there?” Kastus demanded. His eternal quest for justice assumed control. Brogon Lord could wait, for the time being. Any subversive actions against the Baron must be dealt with immediately.

  Thep glanced around. Night had fallen, but there was still enough people wandering the main street to prompt caution. They went inside, where he told Kastus all he knew.

  “I’m not sure this amounts to treason,” Kastus theorized after processing the information.

  If what Thep said was true, the councilman was lining his pockets by selling grain and other food stores to the city of Forge. It was a violation of trade policies, in addition to being a criminal act against the throne. Robbery by any form was still illegal.

  “We need proof before we can act,” he continued.

  Thep finished his coffee. “I can have a team dispatched to look into financial records. The soldiers are growing restless from not finding Lord.”

  “We cannot turn this village upside down, Captain. Regardless of our suspicions, these are still loyal citizens of Fent and must be treated accordingly. And with respect.”

  “What do you propose?” Thep asked.

  Kastus groaned. “I need to speak with the one person I could do without seeing again. Fetch me Deana.”

  Thep snorted his amusement. He was already making plans to be elsewhere when the meeting took place.

  The wait was longer than he assumed, despite knowing Deana would be enraged at the summons. Kastus thought taking her down a few steps was good for her demeanor, even while knowing it was a battle he wasn’t prepared to fight. Time passed, until he began to think she wasn’t coming. He’d just sat down when the door opened and in she walked.

  “Lady Deana, thank you for coming,” he said with a leopard’s grin.

  Haughty as ever, she strode with a stiff back and temperamental disposition
etched on her face. “I was given the illusion that I lacked the option of declining.”

  “Indeed you did. Sit, please.”

  “I shall stand, thank you. What is this about, Kastus? You have no jurisdiction here,” Deana accused.

  “Perhaps, but I am qualified to exact the Baron’s justice wherever I find it needed. And make no mistake, the village of Palis is sorely lacking,” Kastus replied. He sat, placing his palms flat on the table.

  A glint of something, fear perhaps, lingered in her eyes. “What do mean? We have done nothing to garner false accusations. This village is as loyal to the Baron as any other.”

  “Is it?” he demanded. “We have begun an investigation into several odd goings-on here. You can thank the once dead man for that.”

  She snorted. “You suggest we had something to do with this F’talle? Preposterous.”

  “If only that were true, my task might be easier and we would be gone already,” Kastus said. “No, Deana. I am on to a mortal prey. One of your council is in league with outside influences that have been deemed detrimental to the crown, but I suppose you know nothing about that.”

  “I know everything that happens in Palis. To suggest otherwise implies I am incapable of performing my duties,” she stiffened, unsure what he was getting at.

  He flashed a predatory grin. Good. Then you shouldn’t take issue with us arresting the council and detaining them until the guilty confess.”

  “Unacceptable! This is a loyal, peaceful village. We neither harbor enemies nor broker without outside influences contradictory to the law,” she fumed.

  “Yes, so you keep reminding me. That does not excuse the actions of your council,” Kastus replied. His face had returned to a blank mask. A move long practiced. “Tell me what I want to know and this ends before it starts. My soldiers are already preparing to place Palis under martial law, and when we do, it will be on your heads.”

  Deana remained defiant, though the flint in her tone weakened. “What proof have you? False accusations are akin to treason, if I am not mistaken.”