The Children of Never_A War Priests of Andrak Saga

by Christian Warren Freed

  The words, meant to be inspiring, filled Einos with ominous portent. A battle was coming. One he wasn’t sure he could win. It was all he could do to cling to hope. Einos summoned his attendant. It was time to return to the castle and consolidate his forces.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Fent

  Soldiers and deputized citizens patrolled the streets, seeking the renegade village elder. Houses were searched. Shops scoured. Kastus had returned and ordered no structure left unchecked. His trail led him into the heart of Fent, where it went cold. No one they spoke to had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary.

  Einos and the main army were still in the field, leaving the city to Kastus. He had yet to return to the castle, for the prize remained at large. Fent wasn’t as large as many of the capitals in the land, but it was big enough to occupy his entire force and still leave room for more. His first action was to seal off all roads leading out. Outposts were established in a perimeter in the event Waern eluded notice. Not that Kastus thought the old man was going to keep running. He’d gone to ground and would need to be dug out. The end was here.

  Kastus occupied his offices in the center of town, using it as a command post where all communications and efforts would be coordinated. Thep and his squad became the command element. It was a foreign situation for the soldiers, and especially Sava. The sergeant begged to get into the streets. His talents were wasted trapped behind a desk. Thep said no.

  When pressed, Thep argued that the squad was meant to be the reaction force, on standby for whenever Waern or Lord was spotted. Far from acceptable, Sava took the answer and settled into his new position. Grumbling, he snatched a chair and took up watch outside the door, spitting red streams of kappa juice as he hoped for a fight.

  Nils and Alfar cringed each time they heard his chair creak as the sergeant rocked back and forth. They wanted the mission over. To be away from their increasingly agitated sergeant and the stress compounding daily. A string of defeats left them in low morale. Despite that, Alfar remained optimistic. After all, how bad could duty indoors be? There was food, drink—even if it was just water, and warmth from the fireplace.

  “You should stop worrying,” he told Nils. “This is the best job I’ve had since joining the army.”

  “Don’t get used to it. We’re not made for this life,” Nils countered.

  The chair creaked.

  “If you say so. I don’t want to stay in the army forever. I have plans.”

  Nils rolled his eyes. As much as he would like nothing better than to punch Alfar between the eyes, he forced himself to listen. “What plans? You just started!”

  “I’m going to marry a noble and get my own castle,” Alfar said with sincerity.

  The chair stopped creaking.

  Nils spit the water from his mouth. “A noble! You? Now I know you’re crazy. What noble woman would want anything to do with a commoner? You’re mad.”

  Alfar continued smiling and shrugged, as if to say just wait and see. Waving him off, Nils went to the doorway. The office was situated in the center of Fent, providing easy access for every citizen. It did not provide an adequate view. Nils had to strain to see more than the edges of the buildings directly across the street. The thought of going outside meant him standing in Sava’s potential line of fire, and that was something he didn’t need. Content to stare at drab stone walls, Nils waited for his shift to pass.

  Two young men ran up to the porch, where they confronted Sava. Nils listened as they described an impossible scene. He was still trying to comprehend when Sava jumped up and barked for him to follow. Alfar was sent to find Thep and Kastus and told where to meet. They had a lead. Nils barely remembered to grab his sword belt before hurrying out the door.

  Murder wasn’t common in Fent. The occasional body was found, and the guilty apprehended shortly thereafter. This was different. Two men. Each murdered brutally. Their placement was meant as a message. Kastus knelt, waving flies from the drying blood on the ragged wounds. There was no sign of struggle, nor blood anywhere near the bodies, suggesting they’d been killed elsewhere and dragged here.

  “This isn’t good,” he muttered.

  Thep stared at the bodies with casual indifference. He’d been in the army for almost a decade and while attaining a quality rank, hadn’t seen any major fighting. The idea of being around corpses was strange enough to force him to pretend. Having the crusty veteran Sava at his side left him with little choice.

  “Who do you suppose they are?” he asked. Try as he might, there was no way to keep the strain from his voice.

  Kastus used a stick to move one of the dead men’s hand. “If I had to guess, I would say they came from Palis with Waern.”

  “You don’t suppose they ran across Lord, do you?” Sava asked. He was genuinely unaffected by the bodies.

  “Possible, but I doubt it. There is no reason to believe Lord has taken to killing.” He rose. “No. These men stumbled across something they didn’t expect. Look at their wounds. The angle of this cut suggests he was killed from behind. It’s the same with the stab wound.”

  “Why dump them here? It’s almost as if the killer wants to get caught,” Thep asked.

  “Or is sending a message for us to back away,” Sava countered.

  Kastus dropped the stick and wiped his hands out of habit. “I tend to agree with Sergeant Sava. This was meant as a message. Whoever killed these men doesn’t want us to dig deeper. This is a warning.”

  Sava spit and said, “No. It’s a challenge. We need to find the killer and settle the whole damned affair.”

  “How could Waern do this? He’s an old man,” Thep asked.

  “This wasn’t Waern.”

  Thep jerked back as pieces began falling together. “The merchant that old man warned us about.”

  Kastus nodded. There were only a handful of merchant houses in Fent. Each was required by law to have complete, detailed records for auditing. Anyone who failed, lost their license and was forced to pay heavy fines. To say the least, that happened only on rare occasions. All inspection records were kept with the records keeper. Giving him a place to start.

  “Captain Thep, detail some men to see to the bodies. I should have them cremated but we should afford them the opportunity of a proper burial. We need to send them back to Palis,” Kastus said. If that is indeed where you are from. “I want details sent to each merchant house with orders to wait. No one leaves or enters. Seal them off. I’m heading to the castle. I’ll meet you back at headquarters.”

  Sava waited until Kastus and Thep were gone before turning back to his few soldiers remaining. “You heard the man. Nils, Alfar, grab that first body. Karis, head back and find a wagon. These bodies are starting to stink.”

  Nils vomited as he grabbed the body under the arms and lifted. This was not how he envisioned his day going.

  Donal struggled to stifle his yawn. It was all he did these days. Yawn. Boredom made him want to pound his forehead into the dusty wooden table. Countless hours were spent buried under Castle Fent as he continued Quinlan’s orders. Scrolls and manuscripts filled his dreams. Their dust collected over decades lodged in his hair and clothes. His eyes burned from the strain of reading by candlelight.

  It was all for naught. He was trapped in a room without natural light. Time slipped away. The only way he knew what part of the day it was came from the occasional meal brought to him. Donal was unhappy. He hadn’t joined the war priests to serve as a scribe. This was a task beneath his talents. Or so he thought.

  Still, searching for answers was better than facing the F’talle again. He’d been shown his failures in that moment and it left him stunned. Brogon Lord was formidable in death, easily capable of killing him with little effort. Donal decided spending his time among dusty tomes wasn’t that bad after all. Yawning, again, he turned the page of a text listing records of men who’d gone on to take up arms.

  Names and deeds scrolled by, each meaning nothing to him. He turned another page. The
n another. Donal’s index finger was stained black from tracing each line as he read. Halfway down the page he paused. Blinked. Reread the passage. There is was, in fading ink. Brogon Lord. He’d done it. He’d finally found mention of the once dead man. All of Lord’s history, from birth to death, was laid bare for prying eyes to see.

  The more he read, the more he was sickened. Whatever evil Lord represented in death, was nothing compared to the violence he committed in life. Suddenly, it all made sense. Donal almost ripped the page free before stopping himself. Using a blank sheet of parchment as a marker, he closed the book and hurried out of the records room. Quinlan needed to know what he’d found.

  A week had passed since Lord General Rosca granted her permission to assist Quinlan. Arella rode with urgency, sensing that a moment of great portent was approaching. She was one of the best in Andrak. Her skills with a sword were among the top tiered weapons masters. Arella had a quick wit as well, often using it to get her out of trouble. Going to Fent wasn’t an option.

  She and her novice skirted north around the Indolense Permital and down into the flatlands comprising the central plains. They stopped for food and limited rest, going as far and as fast as their horses allowed. A F’talle. Arella seethed with not being the first assigned to the task. She had seniority and wasn’t as damaged as Quinlan. Not that she disliked the man, but he did come to Andrak the bearer of ill news.

  The war priests enjoyed a tight bond, regardless of which castle they served in. Quinlan was the only survivor, or so he claimed, of the collapse of Castle Bendris. Not one to judge others without sufficient information, Arella found the notion disgusting. He should have died with the others. Still, there was something to be said for Quinlan refusing to back down or go into exile. That she admired.

  Arella was already on the move as dawn broke. Fent wasn’t far away, but time grew short. Wind blew her hair in a tangled mess. She didn’t care. Never one trapped by looks, Arella was a warrior first, woman second. Her novice struggled to keep up. She wanted to laugh. This was the ultimate freedom. Riding with abandon across the open plain with the wind in her hair and only a destination in mind. Life offered simple luxuries, from time to time.

  “Come, Jayon! We are wasting time!” she barked over her shoulder.

  “Coming, Sister!” he called back.

  Born to the deep deserts in the far west, Jayon’s dusty brown skin and black hair were uncommon among the priests. He’d come from a caravan, sneaking away from the wagon master to enlist in the initiate program. Once accepted, the war priests forced the caravan away and began his training in earnest. Jayon advanced without a regret. He was assigned to Arella after attaining the rank of novice and was relieved to find they meshed well. She was both wise and experienced, often letting him find a way out of his own mistakes. Her teaching was invaluable.

  What he wasn’t was a natural rider. Horses were uncommon in the desert, almost as much as in Castle Andrak. Jayon took to the quest with his usual vigor, all while knowing he was going to be sore for many days once they reached Fent. So fast was their assignment, he failed to find time to get an appropriate briefing. All he knew was that a fellow priest was in peril and they were storming ahead to assist. It was a mission of necessity and glory. Jayon secretly expected promotion from his deeds in Fent. Becoming a war priest was the only thing that mattered to the young man.

  Sweat dripped from his hawkish nose and onto his lower lip. It tasted of salt. How he was sweating before the sun was fully in the sky, remained a mystery. Jayon rode with abandon, doing all he could to maintain Arella’s pace. As much as the pair appreciated each other, he had no illusions that she would leave him behind if he couldn’t keep up.

  “Ha!” he shouted and urged his horse on.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Fent

  Quinlan tugged off his boots, wincing at the smell pulsating off his feet, and leaned back on the bed. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. The hunt for Brogon Lord had evolved, threatening to take him further away from the goal. Word of the treason of Palis overtook his original purpose, all but consuming Einos.

  He empathized with the Baron, but knew if he didn’t remain focused, there was little hope of ending the F’talle and finding Lizette. The main body redeployed inside the main village, leaving a skeleton force combing the countryside for signs of their prey. Quinlan forced that from his mind, knowing there was little effectiveness to be found in pointless searching. They’d already gone over the surrounding area and were left confused.

  The longer he stayed in Fent, the more he came to suspect the answers to his questions rested in the dusty, forgotten tomes in the basement. Einos’s predecessors were meticulous with their record keeping, making the conditions easy. Producing results was another matter. Quinlan couldn’t help but feel he was close. The sudden knocking, almost frantic, was not unexpected, though entirely unwanted. Sleep would have to wait.

  “Come,” he croaked, voice raw from lack of water.

  Donal all but burst into the room. His expression was enough to rouse Quinlan’s curiosity. “Brother Quinlan! I’ve found what we’ve been looking for.”

  The war priest was wise enough to understand Donal’s true meaning, and the unspoken accusation of having to search alone. Still, his exuberance was almost too much for Quinlan to bear in his current condition. “Calm down, Donal.”

  The novice struggled but followed instructions. He wanted to shout his findings to the world, but restraint imposed by the rigid discipline of the Order prevented him from doing so.

  “Good, now tell me what you have discovered,” Quinlan said.

  Donal took a breath and began a detailed report. Quinlan sat in stunned silence as his novice explained a sordid and checkered past, revealing who Brogon Lord had been. When he finished, both men were pleased but left without knowing how to utilize the information. One thing was clear.

  “We must take this to Einos. Perhaps he or Dalem will know what to do next,” Quinlan said. It was the first bit of good news he’d had since arriving in Fent.

  “Who’s Dalem?” Donal asked as he followed his master down the hall.

  Einos hadn’t felt this confident in weeks. Not only had unexpected help continued to arrive, but Kastus and his company had returned. The spark of hope flickered, threatening to burst into open flame. Fent stood a chance now. A hint of a smile decorated his face. A face that had been pushed to the point of exhaustion, both mentally and physically.

  He listened to Kastus’s retelling of the events in Palis, horrified to learn how deep the treachery extended. Both men were soon convinced that the arrival of the Grey Wanderer brought about consequences undreamed of.

  “The myths are true,” Einos admitted, more for personal gratification than anything else.

  Constable and sclarem remained silent. Only one understood his meaning. So much had transpired since Kastus rode north, he felt lost, far behind. Tension thickened the room, leaving all those assembled lethargic.

  “What myths?” Kastus asked. His gaze hardly left the impossible creature sitting opposite him. “There appear to be many at work here.”

  “The Wanderer. Wherever he goes, bad things follow,” Einos answered.

  “Baron, the Grey Wanderer has not been seen. We have only rumors that he strode the fields the night Brogon Lord was resurrected,” Kastus protested. “Hearsay is nothing to go on. Not with the threat from the north.”

  “At this point, Kastus, I’m not willing to discount anything,” Einos defended. “Why else would Dalem have come?”

  Kastus had no answer. How could he? He sheepishly admitted to not having believed Sava’s recounting of the battle outside of Palis. That a mythical creature was roaming Fent, ready to do battle with a once dead man. “I have no experience fighting the supernatural. My talents are for rooting out crime.”

  “Which you have done admirably in Palis,” Einos applauded. That an entire village under his authority had turned rogue, for what purpose remained hi
dden, without anyone in the duchy knowing, rattled him. It was another problem he didn’t need.

  “Thank you, but our work is not yet done,” Kastus replied. “We should send a detail back to arrest the other Elders.”

  The longer he brewed over events, the more convinced he was that all three were complicit. Waern was out of the equation, hiding in the underground. Not that Kastus was worried. It wouldn’t be much longer before his agents produced documentation revealing Waern’s merchant contact. The conspiracy was ready to collapse. All it needed was a push.

  Einos winced. Whatever he did in Palis would have a rippling effect across his domain. Too heavy a hand might push other villages away, while showing reluctance to punish would show Fent his weakness. He was trapped on a narrow ledge and the wind was picking up.

  “To what end, Kastus? I cannot have an entire governing body removed without proof. And then what will become of Palis without anyone to lead?” he asked.

  That, Kastus had an answer to. “We place the village under martial law until suitable, vetted replacements can be empowered. Ones loyal to the throne. The villagers are already used to a sustained military presence. Having a captain or senior sergeant rule for a limited time poses no threat to their daily lives. It is the only solution.”

  “Do you realize what that implies? That I am incapable of maintaining order in my duchy. If word of this gets out to other lands, I risk opening Fent up to invasion, or worse. This is a dangerous game we play,” he countered.

  The Baron drummed his fingertips on his table. Caught between equally poor choices, it was all he could do to keep from going mad. He needed a drink. A lot of drink.

  “You already risk losing influence among the larger villages. Decisive action is needed,” Kastus insisted. Anger threatened to boil over. He knew he was too close to the situation to provide unbiased opinions, and it mattered not. His love for Fent went almost unmatched.