A blast of white-gold power splashed over the robed creatures and burned the walls and floor. Dalem emerged from the cloud of power bruised and bleeding from a dozen cuts. Smoke lifted off his body. His hair was wild and tangled. Through it all, the sclarem bore a wild look of supreme confidence as he carried the attack to his ancient foes.
“Do not delay! Strike now,” he projected his voice to the war priests.
Quinlan burst from cover. Time, he mused, dominated all. There were no battle cries. No shouted oaths of promised fury. The war priest attacked with professionalism and experience. His charge took the distracted foe unawares. The power of the Flame flared in his armor, funneling into his sword. It was weak, barely noticeable. Quinlan hoped it would be enough. He struck.
Opposite powers collided in a blinding explosion. Quinlan used all his strength and was rewarded by breaking the enemy’s resistance. Blade sliced through the barrier of power and into the desiccated flesh and bone, ripping through the other side. The creature exploded. Priest and novice were thrown away in the blast.
The last of the enemy whirled, stunned by the loss of her companion. “No!”
Dalem, having closed the gap, struck. His staff slammed into the creature’s face. Unimaginable powers mixed under the hood. A kaleidoscope of colors illuminated the tower. Radiance beyond words. The ground vibrated, tearing in several places. Loose planks fell from above, crashing to the floor in a hail of debris. Dalem, teeth grit, shoved harder and twisted.
The robed creature spasmed and collapsed in on herself until nothing remained but a glowing ball the size of a fist. Satisfied he had lived up to his legacy, the sclarem ground his foot down and didn’t stop until naught but ash remained. The death of his final foe, the last of her kind, filled him with vigor though his body was almost broken. More of the clocktower broke apart. It was time to escape.
Dust was rising in great clouds, obscuring vision beyond a handful of meters. Dalem limped through the chamber in search of the war priests. They’d borne more of the assault than he, and for that he was regretful. But their assistance provided the necessary catalyst. His efforts were rewarded when he stumbled upon Quinlan dragging his novice toward the exit. The sclarem slid an arm under the unconscious novice’s shoulder and helped carry him away, while the tower collapsed.
They didn’t stop moving until they were well away from the site. Quinlan slumped to the ground in time to witness the glory of the clocktower crashing down, devoured by its own malevolence. Soon only a pile of rubble remained. The task was finished. Ended like so many lives in its creation. Tears sprang forth, unwanted and uncontrolled. As rewarding as seeing the culmination of their labors was, Quinlan knew they were not yet finished.
“Do you suppose Lizette got the children out?” he asked the sclarem.
Dalem grabbed his lower jaw and shifted it back and forth. The pain radiated up his face and into the back of his skull. “There is one way to find out.”
“Do you know the way?”
He did. Dalem knelt beside the fallen novice and placed three green fingertips on his forehead. Jolts of power, what little he had remaining, filled Donal with energy and soon he awakened. Dazed, confused, he had presence of mind to withhold any questions until after he took in the sight of the fallen tower.
They hobbled after Lizette and the children, the war priests trusting in Dalem’s reckoning. The sclarem had done well enough for them this far. Quinlan ignored the unending sea of ash dunes. Nothing in the Other Realm was worth salvaging. It was a place of despair. They walked until their legs were sore, stopping only when they spied Brogon Lord standing atop a slow rise in the center of a ring of boulders, each the size of a man. His sword was out, point stabbed into the ground with both hands gripping the hilt. His legs were shoulder width apart and the breeze tousled his unkempt hair.
The F’talle awaited them at the crossing point. Quinlan grew nervous, suddenly fearful that a field of slaughter awaited on the opposite side of the rise. Nothing for it, the war priest climbed to the top and confronted the demon of his nightmares.
“Where are the children?” he demanded.
Maggots fell from Brogon’s mouth. “Safe. They are returned to Fent.”
“And the woman?”
“Also safe. Are the masters destroyed?”
Quinlan cleared his throat, the act producing new pains. “They are. The tower is in ruins.”
Brogon cast a longing look over their shoulders. “I have done as you asked. Now it is yours to follow your word. Send me back to the grave.”
Quinlan drew his sword but placed a hand on Brogon’s shoulder. “Thank you, Brogon Lord.”
The war priest swung his sword in a long arc and took the F’talle’s head. The corpse collapsed in a pile of forgotten flesh and bones that dissolved before their eyes.
“It is done,” Dalem said, his demeanor stoic.
Quinlan wiped his sword clean and slid it back in the sheath. “The time has come for us to return to Fent. Omegri agents there must be rooted out and removed so that their taint no longer stains the duchy.”
“Step through those stones. You’ll find the passage instantaneous,” Dalem instructed.
Donal started forward, eager to be freed of the horrors of the Other Realm. Quinlan hesitated. “You are not coming?”
Dalem made a show of absorbing the landscape. “No. There is work yet to be done here. This is but a nexus between realms. So long as it remains unprotected, the Omegri will find new purchase in the world of life. Go, Quinlan of Andrak. You have done your kind a great service. May the rest of your days be filled with peace.”
There was nothing left to say. He had come to know the sclarem well enough to know that no amount of speech would change his mind. Clenching his teeth, the war priest nodded his goodbye and joined Donal through the portal. Their time in the Other Realm had come to an end. Alone again, Dalem clucked his tongue several times before turning back toward the site of the battle. He had much to do before the war began.
FORTY-FIVE
Home
They arrived under cover of night. A column of armed and armored soldiers with full gear and weapons. The village of Palis was caught unawares, for the few on night watch were rounded up and subdued as the occupation commenced. Those soldiers who’d initially arrived with Captain Thep and had yet to receive recall orders responded quickly. Like wraiths, squads dismounted and spread throughout Palis. The village would never be the same.
Doors were kicked open. Those few servants awake were cast aside and apprehended. Their mouths gagged, hands bound. Houses were searched without regard for intimacy or personal affects. Pots lay shattered, their contents spilled recklessly. The soldiers were gruff, weary from endless days on alert. This one task provided inspiration of purpose. An ending of weeks of stress.
Elder Mugh was the first to be dragged from his bed and into the street. He sputtered and wept. An old man bereft of pride, struggling to comprehend what was happening. The soldiers remained tight lipped, for it was not their place to explain the will of their Baron. Too weak to escape, Mugh stumbled to his knees, where he was allowed to remain until a sergeant barked. Rough hands pulled him up and dragged him away to the waiting jail wagon.
There was no pleasure exhibited by the armored men and women. They performed a task. Nothing more. Elder Deana’s home was ransacked next. A show of force was made, for Constable Kastus was assured of her treachery. She was bruised and stripped of dignity even as she strode haughtily through her front door. Deana defied them, begged them to abuse her for the sins of her pride. Chin thrust out, back stiff, she marched to the wagon.
Chains were woven through the door. Locks clasped. The prisoners stared wide-eyed at their captors. Mugh whimpered, realizing the culmination of his life had been reduced to shame. His heart expired before arriving in Kastus’s prison. Deana remained defiant, for she was ever a prideful woman.
The Captain of soldiers mounted and addressed them, “Elders Mugh and D
eana, you are accused of treason against the duchy and sentenced to immediate trial in Fent. All you own has been seized in the name of the Baron.”
Her gaze was filled with vitriol, lingering on his back long after the wagon began to trundle away. The scouring of Palis began in earnest. No lead was ignored as the men and women sworn to service confiscated every asset and owning of the former Elders. Martial law was established in Palis. It would remain for the time being. At least until Baron Einos was satisfied it had been cleansed of heresy.
A great feast was ordered. The citizens of Fent celebrated. They celebrated the return of their children and the ending of the once dead man. A host of plagues was ended and the promise of normalcy sprung anew. Autumn was ending. Yet for the rising cold and lack of life in the world surrounding, mirth was rampant across the duchy. Baron Einos ordered a week of celebration, for his tiny band of heroes had succeeded far beyond the limits of imagination.
All was not without concern. There had been no sign of the war priest or the strange sclarem. Einos began to fear the worst. He sat upon his throne, absorbed in doubt. Life was many things, but it was seldom fair. The Baron wasn’t especially fond of Quinlan. The war priest lacked humanity, rendering him distant on the best of occasion. There was an aura of mortality surrounding the man. One Einos failed to penetrate. None of that absolved the Baron from his feelings of guilt for allowing Quinlan to enter the Other Realm.
Violent images flashed each time he closed his eyes, tired as they were. Men and beast slaughtered in the streets of Gunn. Lives lost at his command. Fent had not been to war during his lifetime and the notion that so many people ended, gnawed heavily on his conscience. The true price of a leader revealed at last. Einos was no warrior and despite having fighters like Sava to carry his banner, lacked the stomach for combat.
His army continued to train. They lacked a foe but retained a newfound sense of urgency. Wounds began to heal. Weapons were reforged. Orders came down from the castle that a new battalion was to be raised. Fent would no longer be caught unawares by dark powers. Einos vowed to protect his people, by any means necessary.
Mind disturbed by a hundred opposing thoughts, Einos pinched his nose and winced. He couldn’t help but feel responsible for all that had transpired. A negligent ruler mired in ignorance as the world schemed around him. That his family was somehow involved soured his stomach. How could his in-laws prove so deceptive, subversive against the crown, without outright betrayal? They weren’t inherently bad people. But greed was a powerful tempter. He hoped the price of destroying a noble family was worth the suffering they risked.
Einos knew his hands were tied, however. Arresting them would not only spark revolt among the larger noble houses but sunder his marriage and destabilize the throne. Fent would unravel despite his best intentions. It was a guilt he refused to suffer, even while knowing there was a time for confrontation with Aneth. He must address the issue with his wife, and pray she was ignorant of the situation or that she saw matters in similar light.
That was for another time. Now he was needed to provide inspiration to the people. The feast was approaching and with it the pomp of celebration. Soldiers who’d exhibited extreme bravery were to be honored. Sergeant Sava, Nils, Alfar, and others were presented Fent’s highest medal for bravery. Thep was promoted to Commander for his actions and given responsibility for raising the new units. Likewise, Sergeant Sanice was appointed his counterpart.
Arella disturbed his solitude. The war priest’s boots echoed as she marched to the base of his throne. She didn’t wait for him to look up. “Baron, the time has come for me to return to Castle Andrak. There is no more I can do here.”
“What of Quinlan?” he asked, eyes closed.
“His loss is regrettable, but such is the way of life. We are not the masters of external forces,” she replied. “His name will be recorded in our annals and he will be hailed a hero. There is little more that can be done.”
She turned to leave.
“Thank you,” he called to her back. “Your assistance rooting out the treason of Giles was most appreciated.”
“I did what was necessary, Baron.”
There was no pride in her actions that day. Merely duty. Arella captured Giles and forced confessions—through manners Einos was unwilling to discover. Mind broken by arcane power, Giles admitted to the murder of Tender Cannandal, the turning of the Elders of Palis, and establishing a quiet empire to usurp the rightful rule of Dukes. His admission of being a servant of the Omegri, lured by their whispered promises of untold wealth. Giles played no part in the resurrection of Brogon Lord but had profited from the once dead man’s actions.
For all those crimes, Einos could not see fit to execute him. Giles had been a puppet, nothing more. Whatever magics Arella used ruined his mind, rendering him into a drooling mess. Kastus, taking unusual pity, locked him away with explicit instructions for care. Giles languished in his cell for a brief time before passing on the last day of the year. His crimes at last atoned for. He was buried in an unmarked grave.
Einos watched the war priest disappear and decided his solitude was pointless. No leader worth his salt remained hidden from the people who risked their lives for him. His stride lacked conviction, however, for he had not yet come to terms with his loss. A commotion in the main hallway stole his attention away from those miserable thoughts. Servants and menials clapped and cheered. No, not for him, it was for another. Curious, he lingered in the doorway so as to catch a glimpse. His surprise was immediate.
Lizette stood in the center of the throng, tightly hugging a weary man in ash covered clothes. Quinlan! The war priest had survived and returned home. Perhaps there was hope for a peaceful future after all. Curious, but unwilling to disturb the moment, Einos craned his neck and listened.
“I thought you lost,” Lizette said through mumbled weeps. Her grip around Quinlan tightened. Not from love or misplaced affection, but from gratitude.
Quinlan struggled not to smile. “It was a dangerous path, but we succeeded. The tower is destroyed and the passage between realms guarded.”
He went on to explain how the shadow masters were destroyed and their terrible work with them. How Brogon Lord met his final demise and the refusal of Dalem to leave. Donal stayed back, unwilling to accept the adulation of the crowd. A tear sprang to Lizette’s eye, for she had come to learn Brogon was not entirely evil. A shred of decency remained in his corpse. That was the only way she convinced him to lead the children to safety. Knowing he was at peace lightened her heart.
“Thank you, Quinlan. For everything,” she whispered, so that only he heard.
To his surprise, he hugged her back. There were no words to express his emotions. Numerous children had been rescued, but nothing he did would bring her daughter back. Lizette understood that better than anyone. It was personal burden she would use to give meaning to her life. Accepting a full-time position in the Baron’s employ, Lizette went on to become one of the most influential women in Fent history. She found fame during the Northern War, returning home to found an orphanage that specialized in caring for the children of fallen soldiers. She never remarried nor had another child. The pain of losing Tabith was too strong.
They unembraced, each going separate ways. Quinlan spied Einos and made his report. The Baron’s shoulders slumped with the news of what happened in the Other Realm. His nightmare was over. The duchy was at peace again. Einos remained in power for another thirty years, surviving wars and plague. Fent prospered, eventually becoming one of the most powerful of the duchies. His bloodline continued to rule.
“What will you do now?” Einos asked.
Quinlan’s eyes softened. “Return to Andrak. My work is finished and there is much I must discuss with the Lord General. It has been an honor to serve you, Baron Einos.”
“The honor has been mine, Brother Quinlan,” Einos returned. “Fent owes your Order a debt of unpayable gratitude.”
“The Burning Season approaches. Repay it
by sending quality knights to stand the walls,” Quinlan replied. He made his excuses and left the duchy of Fent behind.
The road back to Andrak was serene compared to both the ride west and his trials in Fent. The Majj remained hidden in the Indolense Permital, no doubt preparing their clans for the coming war that was prophesized. He caught up to Arella less than a day’s ride east and the two shared experiences. Each was envious of the other, secretly wishing they’d traded places.
Halfway back to Andrak, they made camp for the night. Dinner was eaten and bed rolls laid out. Quinlan swallowed the last of his water and gave Donal an appraising look. “Donal, you did well in Fent. Your actions reflect the highest traditions of the Order.”
“Thank you, Brother Quinlan,” Donal was embarrassed. He seldom received praise for a job well done. That Quinlan recognized him now spoke volumes.
“When we return to Andrak I am going to recommend you be tested for promotion. It has become time for you to wear the colors of a war priest,” Quinlan finished.
Shocked and pleased, Donal Sawq bobbed his head with thinly restrained joy. Years of dedication and training were about to pay off. He didn’t remember the rest of the ride home.
THE END
OTHER BOOKS BY CHRISTIAN WARREN FREED
Everyone knows Elves don’t exist. Or do they? Daniel Thomas spent years making a career of turning his imagination into the reality of bestselling fantasy novels. But times are tough. No one wants to read about elves and dragons anymore. Daniel learns this firsthand when his agent flatly says no to his latest and, what he deems, to be greatest novel yet. Dissatisfied with the turn to zombies and vampire lovers, he takes his manuscript and heads out to confront his agent.
His world changes when he finds his agent dying on the floor of her office. Too late to help, he watches as her dead body disintegrates into a pile of ash and dust. Daniel doesn’t have time to ponder what just happened as a band of assassins breaks in, forcing him to flee to the Citadel and the home of the king of the high elves in order to survive. Daniel soon discovers that all of the creatures he once thought he imagined actually exist and are living among us. His revelation comes at a price however, as he is drawn into a murder-mystery that will push him to the edge of sanity and show him things no human has witnessed in centuries.
The Children of Never_A War Priests of Andrak Saga Page 29