The Children of Never_A War Priests of Andrak Saga

by Christian Warren Freed

  Kastus produced a handful of scrolls, all rolled and tied. “Here is the proof. There is enough damning evidence in these scrolls to see you all hung without trial. Feel free to examine them. Perhaps you can confirm which crimes you are guilty of.”

  Crimson flushed up her cheeks. Her shoulder sagged, showing the weight of her years. Eyes lingering on the scrolls, Deana accepted the offer to sit. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to remain standing otherwise. “What do you wish to know?”

  “I want to know everything you know. Dates, times, places. Who is conducting business against the crown and why. Give this to me, and if you are found innocent, you will be left out of the madness that follows.” Kastus drummed his fingertips for added effect.

  She stopped biting her upper lip long enough to tell him everything. Kastus dismissed her once he was sure she had nothing left worth telling. Only when the door closed behind her did he blow out the pent up breath he’d been holding. Thep entered after Deana left, an amused look on his face.

  “What is so funny, Captain?” Kastus frowned.

  He shrugged, offering a nonchalant smile. “I was wondering if she was going to call your bluff. Looks like you were right.”

  Kastus glanced at the scrolls, thankful Deana hadn’t demanded to see them. He imagined what her surprise would have been to find the scrolls were blank.

  “What’s our next move?” Thep asked.

  “Has there been word on Lord?”

  “Nothing. He might have gone on to another duchy,” Thep suggested.

  Kastus shook his head. “Doubtful. My instincts tell me his purpose is here, though why, I do not know. Increase the range of our patrols. It was a mistake constricting our sphere of influence. We cannot return to the Baron empty handed.”

  “I’ll have the soldiers moving at once. One way or another, we’ll catch this bastard and make him pay for the children he’s stolen,” Thep vowed.

  Kastus admired his audacity, while secretly knowing it was never going to be an easy task. The F’talle might prove the undoing of Fent.

  EIGHTEEN

  Castle Fent

  A gust of chill woke Donal. It was the middle of the night. The candles in his chamber were burned out. Not cool enough for a fire, the bedchambers were left to heat and cool with the sun. Exhausted from their efforts in the records room, Donal closed his eyes, rolled over, and tried to fall back to sleep. He lay that way for a time, unable to find the sweet embrace of slumber. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he slipped from the blankets and decided to use the privy. Unlike Castle Andrak, Fent had dedicated chambers for private use.

  The door swung open with a groan. Aged wood and slightly rusting iron straps were feeling their age. Yawning, Donal scratched his cheek as he stumbled down the hallway. Dimmed oil lamps provided just enough light for him to avoid stubbing a toe. He walked halfway down the hall and placed a palm on the privy door, when a flicker of movement, the briefest hint of another presence, caught his attention.

  Squinting, he tracked the path of movement, but found nothing. Donal grew suspicious. While there were many who lived in the castle, this floor was reserved for the baron and his family and the highest guests. Donal reached for the cold comfort of his sword, only to curse when he realized he’d left it. Unarmed, the novice stalked down the hall in pursuit of his quarry. Each time he thought he’d caught the shadow, it moved. Impossibly fast to track, Donal felt overmatched. He lacked experience in dealings with the Other Realm.

  Shadows coalesced at the end of the hall, leading Donal to suspect his target was just ahead. A large part of novice training involved hand to hand combat. Thus, he had confidence if it came to facing this perceived enemy. Donal braced and made ready to cover the last few meters. A figure emerged before he could move.

  Small, no taller than a child. The figure’s edges were blurred, ill-defined. Donal’s mouth dried. The closer the figure came, the more he was convinced he had discovered one of the missing children. Short, with mussed dark brown hair, the boy stood in threadbare clothes. His chest heaved from sobs. Donal tried to get a better look at his face, but again, each time he looked close, reality distorted.

  “What are you doing here, little one?” Donal asked. The words stuck in his throat, as if a silent warning screamed in the back of his mind. “Are you lost?”

  The child came closer yet managed to stay on the border of light and dark.

  Hairs rose in waves, running from Donal’s knuckles up his arms. He felt a charge in the air. This, he decided, was not right. Instincts kicked in and he held his ground. Donal knew that any attempt to flee would end badly. Instead, he crouched to present a low silhouette.

  “These are the Baron’s private floors. You should not be here,” Donal whispered. “Tell me your name. I can help you find your parents.”

  A handful of steps away, the child halted. Blood trickled from empty eye sockets. The child pointed a finger at him and asked, “Why did you take me? Where are my parents?”

  “I do not know your name, child,” Donal replied. His heart beat faster. Where are your eyes? “Tell me your name.”

  The child’s mouth distended impossibly large, showing rows of fangs. “You killed me! AHHHHH!”

  Donal threw an arm up and twisted aside to protect his face and head as the child launched into the air at him, fingers curled into claws and aimed for his throat. A gust of wind blew past. Only when he realized that there was no impact did he open his eyes again. The hallway was empty, without so much as a foot print to show the child had been there. Shaken, Donal rose and hurried back to his chamber to dress and arm.

  “Tell me again, from the beginning.”

  Quinlan studied Donal as the novice recounted his tale of the night prior. Frightened and confused, Donal told the truth insofar as Quinlan could determine. An unfortunate circumstance. Standing the walls of Andrak, and Bendris before, Quinlan bore witness to countless events that should never have existed. Monstrosities from beyond imagination driven by the unrelenting desire to eradicate all life. That such entities managed to trickle to faraway Fent was an ill portent.

  He rubbed his hands together, eager to remove the film of sweat produced by Donal’s tale. Quinlan supposed it was inevitable. He’d held out against hope that this was all a concocted dream, a nightmare of individual choosing, meant to inspire fear. The reality was much harsher. The Grey Wanderer. A F’talle. Even the Majj whispering of a coming war. Too many random events, all coalescing on Fent. What have you awakened here, Baron?

  There was no other reasonable explanation. A member of the duchy must have made a deal with the dark powers. Quinlan paced. His thoughts outran him.

  “Can you describe this boy?” he asked.

  “No more than ten. Dark brown hair.” Donal closed his eyes and thought hard. “He bore a small scar on his right temple. As if he’d been struck by a stone.”

  Lizette, who’d sat quietly in the corner until now, perked up. “A scar? Was it fresh or old?”

  Donal’s head cocked. “Old, I believe. It had grey-white flesh over it.”

  “I know that boy,” she confirmed. Rising, Lizette hurried to the table containing all of the scrolls containing images of the missing children and rifled through them until she found the correct one. “Here. Valen. His parents were among the latest to report him missing.”

  “Are you certain?” Quinlan asked. The war priest refused to trust to memory, for it was a canny trickster.

  “Positive,” she said. Lizette held up the scroll for Donal. “Is this him?”

  The novice swallowed hard, reliving the incident. “Yes.”

  “We should find his parents. Perhaps they know something we have overlooked,” Lizette offered.

  Quinlan was impressed. He hadn’t wanted to believe in ghosts or F’talle but couldn’t deny the connection after his novice had borne witness. “I think that is a good place to start. After we finish, I would like to see the F’talle’s grave.”

  “The Baron alr
eady had a Tender examine it,” Lizette replied.

  His eyebrow arched. This was news. “Was there anything to report?”

  “I don’t believe so. Tender Cannandal is an old man. Somewhat of a recluse. If he shared his thoughts, they were not made known to the investigation.”

  Priest and novice shared a knowing look. “Is this Cannandal in the village?”

  “He should be.”

  Quinlan nodded. “Good. I wish to speak with him as well.”

  Lizette narrowed her gaze, studying the war priest for signs. Only when she found none, she said, “You think you’ve discovered a link to all of this.”

  “The veil is thinning,” he said after thought. “There are too many coincidences going on here to be chance.”

  There shouldn’t have been surprise in the statement. Five of the six war priest fortresses had been overrun, leaving Andrak as the sole defense against the Omegri.

  “The Omegri?” Donal asked.

  “Possibly, but there are other dark forces at work in the world. Some we have yet to encounter,” Quinlan said. “Come, haste is required.”

  Lizette grabbed Donal by the arm, holding him back as Quinlan headed down the hall. “Is he always like this?”

  “Brother Quinlan is one of the more experienced priests. He has stood the wall many times,” Donal confided. “The Burning Season changes you. Each experience you become a little less of who you once were.”

  He left Lizette wondering what sort of people it took to fight against an enemy most of the population didn’t believe existed.

  The once busy streets of Fent were empty. Scarcely a stray cat or wild dog could be seen. Quinlan noticed the shuttered windows. The barred doors of establishments that should be open. The smells of roasting meat and fresh baked breads were replaced by those of refuse and offal. Fent was being consumed from the inside. A rancorous wound no salve could treat.

  They passed an armed patrol, yet even the defenders of Fent bore downcast looks. How much did the people know, and what measure of that burden was truth? Quinlan suspected the rumors were rampant, spinning an impossible weave with but portions of truth. He’d grown up in a village similar to Fent and knew life seldom changed. But now, all manner of nightmarish creatures had manifested among the population, paralyzing the otherwise sleepy duchy. The malaise was one only stopping the F’talle could remove.

  Lizette knocked on the door once they reached the house. A bitter man whose face was partially concealed behind an unkempt beard answered. His stern glare warned he didn’t wish to be bothered. This was a time of grief.

  “Go away. We’ve already spoken with the Baron’s constable,” he said. His voice terse.

  Quinlan cleared his throat and introduced himself. “Forgive me, but I am from Castle Andrak. I would have a word with you regarding your son. There has been an … incident.”

  “You found him? Is he alive?” False hope brightened his granite face.

  “This would be a conversation best had indoors,” Quinlan reinforced. He should have expected such a reaction but wasn’t thinking clearly. There was a cloud over Fent preventing him from seeing matters for what they were.

  The father’s shoulders trembled. Weeks of pent up hope and frustration colliding. His knees weakened and Quinlan rushed to catch him before he fell. Donal slid to the other side and they helped him back inside. A nagging sensation stopped Lizette as she was about to cross the threshold. She looked over her shoulder, unsure if she’d caught the slip of movement across the street.

  Inside, Lizette crossed the small house to pour the man a mug of water from the pitcher on the table. The house wore the same disheveled look as the father. Both parents had abandoned normalcy with their loss. Her heart wept for them, for she, too, knew the agony. Yet where they had given up, Lizette found new purpose and forced the Baron to give her a task worthy of her need. Not that she’d gotten over her beloved Tabith. Quite the opposite. She’d merely replaced her bitterness with purpose.

  “Here, drink this.” Her voice softened, losing some of the severity with which she’d met Quinlan.

  “We did not mean to mislead you,” Quinlan said as the man drank deep.

  “You should not have come. Not like this.”

  Quinlan agreed, but was left with little choice. He needed to find the truth of what Donal saw. “These are difficult times and I would not have disturbed you, if it wasn’t for what my novice saw last night.”

  The man blinked, suddenly becoming aware that there was another man with Quinlan. “Who are you? Why did you bring me news my heart cannot bear? For my son is surely dead, else you would not have come.”

  “I am Brother Quinlan of Castle Andrak. This is Donal and Lizette.”

  The man balked. A war priest! In his home! “I have always dreamed of seeing a war priest, though never could I imagine it would be in this circumstance. My son is dead.”

  Lizette’s hand was warm, comforting on his shoulder. “As is my daughter. These are trying times, but we must remain strong. For our children.”

  A single tear escaped, running down his face and into his beard. “I am Bael. Varen was a good lad. Full of life and vigor. He did not deserve his fate and I would gladly give my own life so that he could return.”

  “I believe you,” Quinlan said. He alone caught Lizette clutch her breast as she choked back her emotions. “But we must look past our loss, if justice is to be done.”

  “Is it true?” Bael asked. “Was he taken by the Grey Wanderer?”

  “We have not been able to confirm this, but there is suspicion of a F’talle loose in the duchy.” Quinlan slid into the nearest chair. “Bael, we have come to you because Donal believes he saw the ghost of your son last night.”

  Bael snapped his head up, fixing Donal with an uncomfortable stare. “You saw my son?”

  “I did. He was wandering the castle. I stopped him and asked where he was going and he attacked me. I am sorry, but he seemed angry,” Donal cut his statement short, knowing better than to speak what Valen’s ghost accused.

  Bael was silent in thought for some time. When he spoke, it was void of emotion, “What has this to do with me?”

  Lizette’s glance to Quinlan betrayed the suspicion in her eyes. “We are not accusing you of anything, Bael. We only wish to know the circumstances of how Valen became missing.”

  The father grunted and tugged on his beard. “The boy was always playing down by the water. He and his friends. They knew to come home at dark. Only, one night he didn’t come. Me and my wife went looking. We found one of his boots on the bank and man-sized footprints coming out of the bushes. Never saw our boy again and now you come to tell me he is dead. It is true what they say. War priests are the bane of happiness.”

  They left Bael to his misery. Whatever slight comforts in knowing the truth of Valen’s fate would come eventually. But not this night. Tonight belonged to the mournful wails of pain and the helplessness of failure that only a parent who’d lost a child would know. Quinlan’s heart wept for the man.

  “Will he be all right?” Donal asked, once they were on their way.

  Lizette, back straight and chin out, said, “He will endure. As must we all. Where do we go from here?”

  “This water Bael spoke of. Where is it?” Quinlan asked.

  “Not far. There is a stream crisscrossing the village. I believe it runs out beyond the graveyard,” she replied.

  “Can you take us there?”

  Brogon Lord felt used. His muscles deteriorated daily, a reality not even his new powers could prevent. Snippets of memory winked out, leaving gaping holes in who he’d been. Not that it mattered. His life ended at the end of a sword. It was his resurrection that disturbed him, for nobody should be woken from the depths of death. Each time he slunk back from his task, back to the cold indifference of his masters, he was less than when he began. Soon there would be nothing left.

  His return to the Other Realm was not welcomed as before. The encounter with the sh
aman left him burned and beaten. Defeat forced him back to the cave where he could recover lost energies. The masters would respond by bestowing a wealth of power upon him so that he might not find defeat again. For his part, he did not desire to cross paths with the shaman again.

  The great tower rose higher than the last time he was summoned. Tinkering hammers echoed across the surrounding emptiness. Brogon gave little thought to what the children were making. It didn’t matter. The masters said they were necessary and only children could accomplish this task, for their innocence was singular across the world. He looked up, surprised to find what looked like a giant face being shaped toward the top.

  “You have failed us, Brogon Lord.”

  He turned and bowed, fearful of meeting their hollow gaze. Despite lacking physical definition, Brogon recognized the voice of the woman who’d commanded him earlier. He learned quickly not to cross her, having witnessed another once dead man obliterated by the pointing of a finger.

  “I encountered … unexpected circumstances,” he said.

  “The sclarem should not have been in Palis,” she replied. “That does not forgive you for your failures, Brogon Lord.”

  “Forgiveness. I did not know what to do,” he explained. “I fought against the shaman and a squad of human soldiers. Their combined might was too great for me.”

  “Perhaps it is time to shift focus back to the main village,” a second voice said.

  A third added, “Yes, where the bounty is better. Time is running out. We must complete the tower before the Burning Season begins.”

  “There is another problem. One of the war priests has arrived. He may hinder our operations,” the second said.

  Brogon listened to them, unsure of what they spoke. He vaguely recalled hearing of the war priests but knew nothing about them. Clearly they were a powerful force. Strong enough to threaten his masters. Could this mean freedom? A chance to return to the grave and travel on to the next world? A sliver of hope dawned.