The Children of Never_A War Priests of Andrak Saga

by Christian Warren Freed

“Get up.”

  Reluctantly, she pried an eye open. Lizette was shocked by what she saw. Instead of the pitch black emptiness she feared, the landscape was cast in pales shades of black and grey. Once her eyes adjusted, she was able to see almost as far as in the real world. Scrub brush and broken rocks stretched across an endless plain. There were scattered clumps of dead trees, but little else. No wind blew. No clouds filled the barren sky, yet ash fell sporadically.

  Shuffling. Lizette turned toward the sound of the voice. Thread-bare boots stood before her. Torn and battered trousers stretched up gaunt legs. Her captor. Brogon Lord. The once dead man who’d murdered her beloved Tabith. Her fists balled, even while knowing she lacked the strength to do much in her weakened condition. Defiance surged and she remembered who she was. The once dead man needed to pay for his sins.

  “Get up or I will drag you.”

  Both eyes open, Lizette glared at her captor. “Get away from me, monster.”

  Brogon cocked his head, trying to understand. “You think I asked for this? That I wanted to spend eternity a slave?”

  “You killed my daughter!”

  The accusation stung, despite his knowing it was a falsehood. He stepped back. “I killed no one. That is not what I was created to do.”

  “My daughter is dead because of you,” Lizette’s voice turned dark.

  Brogon hung his head. The stiffness in his back and shoulders vanished. “She is dead.”

  His admission stunned her. Unsure how to proceed, Lizette rocked back on her knees and placed her head in her dirt-stained hands. Here she was, at last granted the opportunity to confront the monster responsible for ending Tabith’s light, and she was just as lost as before. Confronting him didn’t inspire the retribution that had burned in her heart.

  Lizette looked up through her tears and saw the creature before her. He was broken. A twisted shell of what once was. Curious, she felt no malice pulsing from him. Could it be he told the truth?

  “What are you?” she whispered.

  The faintest hint of emotion entered his eyes. “What you say I am. A monster. They created me to steal children for them.”

  “Who? Who created you?” she asked. The prospect of a new, stronger enemy filled her heart with dread.

  “I do not know.”

  A bell chimed in the unseen distance.

  Brogon’s head snapped around. Strands of coal black hair whipping across his shoulders. “Get up. We must go. Now.”

  “Go where, Brogon?” she took a chance on using his name, hoping it might inspire some semblance of humanity hidden within the recesses of his past.

  “The masters call.”

  He said no more. Brogon Lord turned toward the sound of the chime and marched off. Abandoned and bereft of hope, Lizette struggled to her feet and followed.

  How long they walked, she didn’t know. Fresh aches ran up her legs and into her lower back. More than once she thought of halting and turning back. Only, there was nowhere to go back to. She was trapped in what Quinlan called the Other Realm, destined for whatever nightmarish torments the once dead man had in store.

  Sometime later, they crested a slow ridge and she was granted sight of an impossible world. A low basin stretched out before them. Flashes of lantern light, faint as the crack of dawn, illuminated the center. A massive tower reached up into the sky. So large it avoided common dimension. Lizette had difficulty focusing. The tower shimmered, flickering in and out of time and space. She wanted to ask questions, refraining only after remembering Brogon was disinclined to answer.

  They kept walking. Each step made the tower larger. She eventually made out individual shapes moving about the base and climbing the sides. The sound of tinkering carried over the stale air. Workers. Builders. They seemed so small, even from this distance. It was to her horror she realized they were children. Hundreds of children dedicated to building the tower.

  “You bastard!” she hissed. “You brought my daughter here. As a slave!”

  If her words had effect, he didn’t show it. “We must hurry. Punishment is severe.”

  Lizette surged forward to grab him by the arm. Loose flesh moved in her grip. “What are they building? Why children?”

  Brogon stood. Mute. No answer forthcoming, Lizette decided it was past time to take control. She gathered her now filthy skirts in a hand and stormed down into the basin. Those responsible would pay for their crimes. The once dead man stood on the downward slope, watching her for a time. She presented both challenges and a potential salvation. He so desperately wanted to die. To return to the earth and on to the next world. If, if she managed to gain the upper hand, that demise might finally be achievable.

  The once dead man followed her down.

  Whatever she thought she saw on the ridge was dwarfed by the reality of the situation. Hundreds of children toiled away on the tower. The base stretched almost one hundred paces. How high it rose, she didn’t know. Piles of wood and stone littered the surrounding area. Greasy smoke rose from a small burning fire not far away. The stench of roasted flesh tickled her nostrils.

  Brogon stopped her from investigating further. “Not there. You do not want to see the pit.”

  Tears welled. Lizette knew what burned and it pained her heart unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Now that she was here, she knew her daughter suffered a fate worse than she deserved, toiling away until she died and then burned unceremoniously. No child deserved such. Strength fled, leaving her a shell of a woman.

  “What is this?” a female voice asked.

  Lizette refused to speak. Brogon slipped before her. In defense? “She is an unfortunate occurrence. I did not intend to bring here with me, but I had no choice.”

  “Yet here she stands. Kill her.”

  No one moved. Lizette, doing her best to appear strong, struggled to remain standing. Her fury was extinguished. Knowing Tabith’s fate robbed her of all she’d clung to. She wanted to die. But not like this.

  “No.”

  Brogon’s defiance offered fresh inspiration when Lizette needed it the most. Perhaps he wasn’t as evil as she first reckoned.

  Three figures appeared, each dark as night and shifting. Like the tower, Lizette found trouble focusing. Each hovered above the ground. Where two were smaller, less menacing, the third was tall and firm. Clearly the leader. And the one who was addressing them.

  “You are defying us?” she hissed. “That you walk is thanks to us. Our grace has given you purpose. All that you are has been bestowed by my will. Without us, you are nothing.”

  “I have died once. There is no fear of doing so again,” Brogon opened his palms, inviting the end. What little conscience remained, gnawed at him constantly.

  “You dare!”

  The shadow bulked, growing to terrifying proportions. Brogon stood fast. Fear died the moment his heart stopped beating. He knew the masters were capable of inflicting unending torments upon him from now until the breaking of the world. It was worth the suffering if he never had to steal a child again.

  “All I was has been compromised by your filth,” he said. “What more can you do?”

  “There are fates worse than death,” she snarled. Blue-green flames lit from the ends of her fingers.

  “Stop this!” Lizette shouted.

  Weeks of pent up rage and frustration returned to collide in the far recesses of her mind. A once quiet woman with little regard for the rest of the world, she’d transformed into a strong, determined woman with purpose. Brogon Lord wasn’t as bad as the people of Fent thought. Yes, he stole children, but there was such agony in him, she almost wept. He was just as much a prisoner as the children he stole. The true monsters hovered before her.

  “You threaten without having the courage to show your faces. What gives you the right to steal our youth and bring men back from the dead? Show yourself!”

  The flames winked out. The shadow shrunk and a woman laughed. Lizette reeled back as shadows swirled around all three figures, collapsing
in tight circles until they vanished. What remained made her gasp. Two men and one woman, or so she thought, stood before her. Their robes were poor, tattered and ruined. Hairless, their skin was mummified and stained dark brown from age. Lines filled their face and hands, forming endless canyons. Only their eyes held signs of life. Wicked. Malevolent.

  “Is this what you wanted to see, little one?” the female asked. “Are you satisfied? I would very much like to kill you now. Perhaps you will perform Brogon’s task better.”

  “I … I will not be responsible for the deaths of these children,” Lizette stammered.

  “We do not want them dead. What use would they be?” the smaller male said.

  “But that pit …”

  “Is the result of their labor,” the second male replied. “We need them to work. The task must be complete!”

  “What task? Why children?” Lizette demanded. She felt the more answers she got, the easier it would be to escape. If such was possible.

  The female slipped to the ground and walked closer on bare feet. Puffs of ash dusted up in her wake. “These are the children of never. Their great work is important to our purpose. They build a great clock that, once complete, we will be able to stop time and invade your world.”

  “Time must be stopped,” the others echoed.

  Lizette shook her head, confusion worsening. “You cannot stop time.”

  “We can. We shall. There is much you do not know of the universe,” the female said. “We have been here before your kind crawled from the mud. We shall be here long after naught but dust remains of your bones.”

  “Our task hastens your demise. The world belongs to us,” the larger male said.

  “Time must be stopped.”

  Lizette stood defiant. “You didn’t answer my question. Why children?”

  “Because of their innocence. They are capable of withstanding this realm much longer than an adult. Children built the clock.”

  “What will you do with them once they finish?” She didn’t want to ask, fearing the answer was evident before her.

  The female cocked her head. “They will share your same fate. Brogon Lord, take this woman to the pens.”

  “She is not to be harmed,” Brogon insisted.

  “No. I have a fate much worse than pain in store for our interloper.” Gesturing, the female and her companions disappeared beneath a wall of shadows.

  “What happens now?” Lizette dared ask.

  Brogon cast a baleful look. “I do not know. Come.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Castle Andrak

  Lord General Rosca stood gazing into the impenetrable wall of mist perpetually surrounding Castle Andrak. There’d been a time when he was consumed with learning why. How such a thing could be possible. Time and the constant assault by the Omegri reduced his curiosity until nothing remained. The mist was. He accepted that and turned to use it to his advantage.

  The Burning Season was approaching. Soon, streams of knights and mercenaries would flock to Andrak to be tested to earn the right to stand the wall. Many failed and were dismissed before they unpacked a saddlebag. Those one hundred found acceptable would stand the wall for one hundred days. History showed only a handful survived each year. A small price to keep the Omegri from extinguishing the Purifying Flame and overrunning the world.

  Here he stood, a daily ritual leading up to the storm. Rosca was a troubled man. His instincts warned that a storm was approaching. One the war priests might not be able to weather. Sayers studied the trends of recent attacks, developing potential futures, and how the Omegri adapted their movements. All of it pointed to foul times looming just beyond the horizon. Rosca understood the changing of tactics, but until he was able to either invade the Other Realm or restore the other five castles, there was little in his control.

  Castle Andrak was alone against the storm.

  Winds whistled across the ramparts, forcing him to pull his bearskin cloak tighter. Light rain began to fall. It was always raining. Enough to drive a man mad. Rosca liked to think he was immune to the weather. If not the rain, it was the recent events in Fent that left him restless in the middle of the night. Any F’talle sighting was rare, and for good reason. The Omegri could only extend a small amount of influence outside of the Burning Season. To do so invoked great power.

  Doing so now suggested a major offensive was beginning. Only what? He needed real-time intelligence from Quinlan so that he could make the best decision on how to proceed. Frustrated with being cut off, Rosca returned to his state offices high atop the tallest tower. From here he could view the world, or that much the mists allowed. It was no mistake Andrak was built on the tip of a peninsula where worlds collided.

  “Lord General, a messenger bird has arrived from Fent,” Brother Inverness announced upon Rosca’s return.

  Inverness was old, ancient in most regards. How he maintained a full head of stark white hair was a wonder to the balding Rosca. “Quinlan?”

  “So it appears. Perhaps matters aren’t as dire as you believe.”

  Rosca stared at his confidant and scribe, wondering when he mentioned his innermost thoughts. Like in most matters, Inverness knew more than he should. He’d been the conscience of Andrak for years, serving at the pleasure of the Lord General. There wasn’t a living soul Rosca trusted more.

  “I’ll take the message in my study. Have a raven prepared to reply,” he said.

  Inverness bowed and said, “I am already working on it.”

  Rosca smiled. “Where would I be without you, Inverness?”

  The old man chuckled and stomped away. His wooden leg echoed far down the hallway.

  There was a time when the war priest network stretched to the farthest reaches of the world. An intricate web of associates, spies, and allies coming together with the intent of ensuring freedom and peace reigned. The ever present threat of the Omegri forced kingdoms to work together. It was a grand age. An age meant to last an eternity. Failure was swift and harsh.

  No one knew who betrayed the priests of Castle Manlius. Protection wards were removed during the middle of the night, allowing the Omegri to slip in and kill the garrison. Once the priests were dead, the Omegri extinguished the aspect of the Purifying Flame concealed deep within the castle. It was but the beginning of the end. Each of the remaining castles fell in subsequent Burning Seasons. The world was rendered defenseless. Chaos and war ensued, for man’s inherent nature was one of violence.

  Now only Andrak remained. The last bastion against a faceless horde of unlimited size. One small garrison barring the way from the world being overrun. It was a task well received among the lands. Fresh lines of veterans surged into Andrak in preparation of each Burning Season. The crème of fighting men and women. That most fell was testament to their courage. Wars were never for the faint of heart.

  Rosca stood with one of his castle’s mainstays, Master Sergeant Cron. Bitter and a veteran of perhaps too many campaigns, Cron was the straight voice Rosca needed in times of crisis. Next to Cron was a rising commander among the priests, Arella. Her golden hair seemed out of place beneath the gloom. Rosca took pride in watching her develop. She was already one of the best he knew with a sword and a more than capable magic conduit. It didn’t take much imagination to see her wearing the mantle of Lord General one day.

  “Are you certain, Lord General? Quinlan is a proud man. He will not take intrusion well,” Arella said. Her demeanor was straightforward. She was a professional. Time was important. Almost as much as life.

  Rosca appreciated her tone. She was often the voice of reason where he needed it most.

  “Quinlan knows what’s good for him,” Cron answered. “He’s been that way since I first met him. If he says they need help, we should send it.”

  Rosca agreed but knew there was the potential for the war priests being perceived as weak. The damage such a reputation might do was frightening. Volunteers for the wall would dwindle, for his priests to fight harder and spend their energies
against the creations swarming the walls rather than combating the true threat. It was a delicate situation he was forced to balance.

  “Quinlan is one of the best, but even he has never encountered a F’talle. Curse the Grey Wanderer! Were it not for his meddling …”

  “We cannot control the whims of the supernatural,” Arella reminded. “I will take my novice and go. Two war priests should be more than enough to end the F’talle threat.”

  “Are you certain?” Rosca asked. Already wagon trains of fresh supplies, weapons, and armor were starting to roll in. “The Burning Season is not far off.”

  She flashed an uncharacteristic smile. “We shall be back in time, Lord General.”

  He hoped she was right. Arella saluted and hurried away.

  Cron spit a mouthful of kappa juice. “That is one person I never want to cross blades with. Do you think she can do it?”

  “For all our sakes, I hope so. We will need her on the wall,” Rosca said. “Ensure the quartermasters square away the supplies. I am going to the Flame to pray.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Fent

  An autumn storm rolled in, seemingly out of nowhere. It wreaked havoc across Fent and the neighboring duchies. Doors and windows were shuttered and barred. No one stepped outside. Already high winds stripped trees of dying leaves. Many large maples and pines toppled over, their roots freed by the loose soil after hours of heavy rains.

  Quinlan stared at the dismal day with veiled eyes. He’d overcome his doubts and the nagging suspicion he wasn’t strong enough for the task, only to become trapped inside. Helpless. He needed to continue the hunt. The only way to get Lizette back, in his estimation, was by drawing Brogon Lord back to Fent and forcing a negotiation. How to deal with a dead man presented intimate troubles of its own.

  He and Donal struggled with finding ways to invoke the F’talle without risking increased casualties. Too many of Einos’s men paid the ultimate price for his failure. He vowed not to repeat the mistake. But how? No way he came up with could be done without placing others in grave danger. His purpose was to save lives.