“The priest is a hindrance, nothing else,” she decided.
The third snickered. “Do you forget what they do to our kind each year? He will find us and kills us.”
“He is but one man! Alone and removed from the powers of the Flame. He is vulnerable,” she said. “We can deal with him when the time comes.”
“Time is too short. The war priest complicates our efforts. Should he learn of the tower, we will fail,” the second countered.
“I know what must be done. Do not assume to command me,” she snapped. “Brogon Lord, you are to return to Fent. Kill this priest and bring us more children! We must not fail.”
Rebuked, the once dead man bowed again and backed away. He’d been given renewed purpose and aimed to please his masters. The alternative was not an option.
NINETEEN
Castle Fent
Quinlan knelt along the bank, examining the different footprints. A child and the decidedly large tracks of a grown man dragging one foot. Suspicions aroused, the war priest removed one of his gloves and touched his fingertips in the depression. The tracks lead away from the stream, into the bushes where they ended. They didn’t disappear. They simply stopped. Quinlan had little doubts whose they were. Even after the ten days since Valen was reported missing, the hollow prints, faded and distorted, showed the truth.
“There was a struggle,” he said after catching the meter long swipe running parallel to the tracks. As if the child refused to go along. “Valen did not know his abductor.”
“You suspect this F’talle? Brogon Lord?” Lizette asked. Her arms were folded, fingers bled white from clutching her blouse tightly.
“I do. It is the only theory that makes sense. Add to that how the trail ends abruptly, and we must conclude that Lord was here,” Quinlan confirmed.
Donal took in the scene with pause. He was reminded of the time when the Witch Queen of Calad Reach was stealing first born sons, but this had a much more sinister feel. “Where does that leave us if we cannot follow this Lord back to his lair?”
Unsure himself, Quinlan tugged his glove back on. He moved to the end of the tracks and studied the surroundings. Burn marks scored a handful of trees and bushes along his front, suggesting the F’talle slipped into the Other Realm. Why take the children there? What purpose could a once dead man have with living children in a realm where space and time were obscurities? Quinlan found too many questions without answers. A sliver of his mind screamed in warning. Go back before it was too late. Go back before he uncovered more than he was willing to accept. Fractured realities awaited, should he stumble.
“We must find a way into the Other Realm,” Quinlan said.
“Are you mad?” Lizette bleated. “That is not a place for mortals. How could such be possible? A land of demons and nightmares is said to lurk beyond the veil.”
“What choice have we? Unless we manage to lure Brogon Lord into a trap, we are powerless to keep him from striking again,” Quinlan answered.
“That isn’t reassuring,” she said.
“It wasn’t meant to be. We are facing a very real threat we might not be able to combat.”
Donal wanted nothing to do with the F’talle. His experiences with the Omegri already threatened to break his mind. At least they’d been trying to kill him. This once dead man was intent on abduction, and worse. He was the monster mothers warned their children of. The creature under the bed.
“I thought the Baron had soldiers in the north searching for him?” he asked.
Lizette cocked her head. “Near the village of Palis, yes, but I have not heard any word from them yet. It is possible they have found nothing.”
“Why go north?” Quinlan asked.
Still unsure of where the war priest’s loyalties lay, Lizette debated telling him their intimate secrets, even at the expense of the children of Fent. Alas, Quinlan provided their best opportunity of success. She relented. “Einos and Kastus agreed that the pattern of abductions showed Lord moving north, out into the surrounding villages. Palis and Jut were the next two in geographical order. Sending soldiers to each was an attempt at getting ahead of the problem.”
Quinlan processed the information and agreed. “That makes sense. Striking too often here would prompt increased security measures, making Lord’s task too difficult in comparison to the reward. There is no guarantee that the F’talle will move in accordance to mortal constrictions.”
“Which is why the constable hasn’t reported anything of worth,” she added.
“Leading me back to my previous point.”
Lizette snorted. “The Other Realm. You priests are filled with a death wish.”
“We are all that stands between the veil. Be glad you do not know the horrors that await should we fail,” he replied. “There is nothing more to learn here. I wish to speak with the local Tender.”
“Cannandal? He is an old man, Quinlan. Some whisper he is not in his right mind. Of course, they do so behind his back. His title earns him respect for the time being.”
“What better way to learn the secrets of the veil than from one who minds the spirits of the dead?” Quinlan forced a grin.
They were too late. Donal was the first to find the Tender, calling the others into the room. Cannandal sat in his chair, head tilted back. His face was locked in a rictus of horror. The flesh was pulled back, tight against the bone. Bloodshot eyes stared into nothing. Whatever his last vision was, none could guess.
Quinlan circled the small desk, taking in each detail. A stack of parchments was half pushed off, trailing away across the floor. Small vials containing various colored liquids were knocked over. He leaned forward, catching the scratches etched into the chair’s arms, trails of dried blood stretched down to the floor. Wood slivers popped most of Cannandal’s fingernails up.
“Who would do this to an old man?” Lizette gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “Cannandal never hurt anyone. He was here to help us.”
“The murderer is a man with secrets from the dead,” Quinlan guessed.
Donal whispered a prayer. “What killed him?”
Quinlan wished he had more definitive answers, but whatever killed the Tender remained shrouded. “I do not know, but it is clear he died from fright. Look at his eyes.”
Wide open, his gaze remained locked in the nightmares of his last sight. Librarians in Andrak recorded incidents of a great many terrible beings roaming the dark places of the world, many of which were capable of killing a man with a look. Quinlan suspected evil, but this felt wrong. He wasn’t sure that Cannandal’s killer was inhuman.
“Why is he still sitting in his chair?” he asked, more thinking aloud than expecting an answer.
Lizette overcame her shock, taking a moment to study the Tender. “He was caught off guard. What else could it be?”
“No, I believe there is more,” Quinlan said. “Look at how his fingers dug into the chair. How his desk was scattered. Any man, regardless of age, would have put up a struggle upon being confronted, especially in the security of his own home.”
Donal didn’t follow. “What else could it have been? There are no signs of struggle aside from his desk top.”
“Precisely,” Quinlan said. “I believe whoever killed this man was known to him.”
“You’re saying a friend did this?” Lizette asked. The idea that a killer was loose in Fent disturbed her. She’d just come to accept the actions of the F’talle.
“Not a friend, but a person he knew,” Quinlan corrected.
“But why?”
Why indeed? Quinlan felt the answers were just out of reach. Answers he wasn’t prepared to accept. Far too many events were conspiring in Fent to be coincidence. That thought had become too familiar. He was behind the enemy at every turn. Unless he managed to turn the odds against the F’talle, Quinlan feared for what the future held.
“Tenders are people of great influence. You said he had just assisted Einos. It is possible he was killed for what he knew,” Quinlan theor
ized. “To prevent word from getting out.”
“Quinlan,” Lizette squared on him. “If what you are saying is true, someone is in league with the once dead man. A mortal agent!”
“No other explanation makes sense,” Quinlan nodded.
His stomach twisted. Accusations without proof amounted to little more than hearsay. Einos would come to accept his word, for he wore the colors of Andrak. A war priest’s integrity was beyond reproach. But would the rest of the duchy follow? Riots might ensue, or worse. Tensions continued to rise as the investigation had the appearance of getting nothing accomplished. Quinlan doubted it would take much to ignite the duchy in anarchy.
“We must take this to the Baron,” Lizette said. Her demeanor changed. Gone was the doubt, the slightest hesitation. In its stead was a hardened resolve to find not only her daughter’s killer, but that of Tender Cannandal. “The people must be warned.”
“I agree,” Quinlan said.
She paused, taken off guard. Lizette had expected more of a fight from the priest. Quinlan was proud, borderline arrogant, enough she believed, there was no way he was going to Einos without exhausting all possibilities first. Was he being duplicitous? The thought terrified her. It was possible the war priests had their own agenda in Fent, contradictory to what she was trying to accomplish. Trust, she decided, needed to be extended if any solution was coming.
They walked back to the castle side by side.
Einos pinched the bridge of his nose. Each day the news worsened, placing him deeper into a position he could find no exit from. Lines had formed in the creases of his eyes, stretching across his cheeks, only to be outdone by the dark bags clinging. He felt older. As if the world conspired to torment him into ruin. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a full night’s sleep.
“You’re telling me that one of my citizens has committed murder?” His words were flat, stretched.
Quinlan sympathized with him. Einos was a good man, perhaps even a good leader. Everywhere the war priest went, people spoke with respect. Many duchies could not say the same. Some leaders were tyrants, would-be usurpers of power. Others were weak, incapable of showing spine in the face of adversity. In his estimation, Einos had the best interests of his people at heart. A man worthy of the title.
“I understand this is not an easy concept, Baron,” Quinlan began, “But we owe it to those lives lost to explore all possibilities. This has an ill feel to it. One I cannot fathom as of yet.”
“Is there no other option?” Einos asked. “Why would anyone commit such a crime in the middle of what we already have going on?”
“Perhaps because they thought they could get away with it. Perhaps to keep us distracted,” Quinlan ventured. “A more important question is what did Tender Cannandal know about the F’talle?”
“I fear that question is one that will not be answered,” Einos said with dryness.
Quinlan saw the exhaustion in his eyes, lingering just behind the normally hawk-like gaze. He pitied the man. There was no greater burden than leadership. Quinlan saw it in Lord General Rosca each time he walked the walls of Andrak. Proud men carrying too much upon their backs. They walked with slumped shoulders, despite the strength of their conviction. It was inevitable.
Einos licked his lips. “Cannandal inspected the grave and was … out of sorts after. I could tell it affected him negatively, but he refused to explain. I took it as part of his burden for speaking with the souls of the dead. Now, I’m not so sure there wasn’t more.”
“What more could there possibly be?” Lizette asked. “Aren’t Tenders supposed to ensure the dead move on to the next life?”
“That and more,” Quinlan supplied. “Tenders are a special breed. A dying one if I am correct in recalling my studies. They care for the soul until it is ready to move on. Each has a special bond with the Other Realm. They can see what most of us cannot. A gift, some say. Others, a curse. The more I think on it, the more I am convinced Cannandal discovered something he wasn’t meant to.”
“My military might is insignificant compared to many of the duchies. A heavy portion is already deployed north with Kastus. What little I have remaining is perhaps enough to impose martial law in the main villages,” Einos offered.
“Doing so might turn your people against you, which would be precisely what our enemies wish,” Quinlan denounced the idea. “I suggest increased presence patrols. Do not call up the levees but have a plan to enact such. Anything to prevent the danger I feel approaching from gaining a foothold in Fent.”
“Do you think it will come to open conflict?” Einos asked.
“Wariness is our best hope until we discover the killer’s identity. There is another possibility you must accept,” Quinlan suggested.
“That being?”
“The killer is not alone. An entire cabal might be operating in the shadows. It is my experience that these sorts cluster together where we least expect it.”
Einos sagged in his chair. More weight he wasn’t sure he could handle.
“Why is he a baron, if this is a duchy?” Donal asked once they were back in their chambers for the night.
“Fent is an old land,” Quinlan began after some thought. “Older than most of the other duchies. Rather than melt into obscurity with the rest of the ruling class, the original founders settled on calling themselves barons. The reasons are unimportant. Prestige perhaps. I doubt even Einos knows the origins with clarity.”
“It feels odd, almost wrong.”
Each moment like this proved Quinlan’s instincts by insisting the Lord General accept Donal into the initiate program. Not only had Donal proven his martial worth standing the wall for the bulk of the Burning Season after his knight was killed, but he was a fast learner with a good mind for critical thinking. It was going to be a proud day, for master and apprentice, when Donal donned the sky blue colors of the Order.
“True, but who are we to dictate how others live? Our path in life is to protect, not rule,” Quinlan reminded. “Remember your training. It will serve you well in the trials to come.”
Donal resisted the urge to hang his head. Another long day contributed to his growing fatigue. “I feel, at times, that I am out of my depth. Every time I believe I’ve gotten my mind to accept what is, something worse changes. How can we be expected to defeat the Omegri, if we can never get ahead of them?”
In truth, Quinlan doubted the Order was ever meant to defeat the Omegri. Contain and prevent from invading this world, but not defeat. To do so would require vast amounts of military might going into the Other Realm. They would be outnumbered and outmatched at every turn. Failure was all but certain. No. Best the war priests stay here, protecting the Purifying Flame.
“Many of life’s questions aren’t meant to be answered,” Quinlan supposed. “The hour is late. I fear tomorrow will be more of the same. We are on to a conspiracy, Donal. The F’talle is but a player in a much greater game. Once we discover who controls the strings, we shall be able to unravel their plans. Good night. Oh and Donal, take a weapon with you should you need to visit the privy again.”
Chuckling, he watched his novice close the door on his way out.
Some matters are meant for the dark of night. Betrayal. Treason. Murder. Until recently, Giles would have never considered any of that. He’d been an honorable man in charge of a small trading company. Life wasn’t glamorous, but it was good and he had little need for want. Far from rich, Giles spent years developing a web of suppliers, while offering his specific services. Ones many of the other merchants refused to offer.
It was Fent’s insignificance across the continent that led him down roads less desired. Giles reached out to the surrounding duchies. Their dukes and duchesses were more than happy to increase their flow of revenue by using his caravans. All under Einos’s watch. The Baron still hadn’t caught on, or chose to ignore it, if he had. Coffers of gold, silver, and jewels from across the continent soon prompted him to dig deep under his trading house. Secure ro
oms were constructed and filled with his newfound wealth.
None of that brought the happiness he once assumed. Loneliness crept in, haunting him with lullabies of prolonged misery. Single and without heir, Giles realized that his legacy would be lost like flotsam in the river. All he’d done and strived for threatened to be forgotten in the moment of his death. That cold reality robbed him of many nights. His health declined. He began to question who he was, why.
Answers not forthcoming, Giles turned to the night with prayers. He was answered by a pair of mortal agents of the Omegri. Their overbearing desire to reclaim the world of the life drew many less than desirables to their name. Giles wasn’t inherently wicked, but the opportunity to salvage his life’s work demanded he take action. All he needed to do was reach forth his hand and the future was secured.
It was a deal with the damned. Giles felt slivers of his soul peeling away each time he was forced to deal with the shadow agents of the Other Realm. Thus he sat. Deep in the seclusion of his treasure rooms, with blood stained hands. Giles stared at the scars the Tender left across his hands and forearms. Regret twisted his aged features. The Tender wasn’t a foul man. In fact, Giles often found him pleasant. What he was, was an impediment.
“What have I done?” he asked the dark, flashes of the old man dying taunting him.
“What you were expected to do,” a thin voice, little more than a rasp, said from the shadows by the door.
A second voice added, “Have you regrets?”
“Perhaps we have chosen the wrong agent.”
“There must have been another way,” Giles defended. His anger at being disturbed, here where he thought the most secure, rose.
The first voice, an unpleasant woman with flesh so pale, it hadn’t seen the sun in a generation, replied, “Tenders speak with the dead. It would not have been long before he learned of our operations in Fent. What do you suppose will become of you should the Baron discover your duplicity?”
The Children of Never: A War Priests of Andrak Saga (The War Priests of Andrak Saga Book 1) Page 13