Knowing they were going to be in grave trouble when they returned home, Quinlan started to run. His shouts grew frantic, fearful that something dark and twisted had happened. Searching without pause, he checked all their favorite places. Secret hiding spots among rock and tree. Nothing. His friend was gone. Alone, and afraid, young Quinlan stood along the river bank wondering what happened to his friend and how he was going to break the news to his parents.
The answer awaited him. His mother smothered him with hugs, fiercely tight as if she were afraid to let go. When he asked why, they told him his friend’s body was found downstream. The entire village was affected, brought together by the tragedy. Quinlan spent years lamenting his role, always wondering what he might have done different. That desire eventually took him to the walls of Castle Bendris, and the War Priests.
Pulling his pale blue cloak tighter around the neck, he and Donal continued down the street. Life threatened to return to normal, now that there hadn’t been any reported abductions in weeks. Quinlan found it disturbing how easily one forgot. A great evil stalked these lands, yet the human mind was conditioned to put harsh times behind and carry on. Would it be their undoing? He hoped not. Hoped that the authority he brought to Fent was enough to end the nightmare. Often, hope was enough.
“Are you hungry, Donal?” he asked.
Taken off guard, the novice pulled his gaze from the empty street. “I feels like I always am, leastwise since I encountered that spirit.”
“This cold has a way of sapping a man’s strength. Let us find a vendor.” Quinlan empathized with him. The supernatural had a way of creeping into the soul, threatening to rob it of all it was, should one become unfocused.
They headed for the marketplace, mouths watering as the smells of roasting meats and fowl filled their nostrils. Stomachs growling in anticipation, they purchased skewers of venison and thanked the vendor with a pair of silvers.
Quinlan leaned back against the nearest wall and savored the juices as he bit into the meat. These were the moments where he missed simpler times. Not that he had much to complain about. They were a long way from the drear of Andrak and the all-consuming threat of the Omegri.
“What brought you to Castle Andrak?” he asked Donal.
Volunteering a lifetime of service to the Purifying Flame was no easy task, especially for one so young.
“I wanted more than what I had,” Donal said after some thought. “Truthfully, I seldom think on it. Sir Forlei was a good man. Harsh when necessary, but he always had my best in mind. I tried to serve him as well as any squire. When he said he was going to fight in the Burning Season I was nervous but knew that he would survive. Little could I have known.”
“The Burning Season is a war unlike any on this world,” Quinlan said with a nod, remembering his first time standing the wall. “Only the best survive, and for that, the world gets to live another year. You never thought of following in your father’s shadow?”
“I did, for a time. He loves what he does, but I realized far too soon that it was not the life for me. I wanted more.”
“Just not what,” Quinlan added.
Donal shook his head, finishing the last bite. “I feel like there is something more for me, waiting just beyond reach. Only, I don’t know how to find it.”
“Life is strange that way. I don’t believe we are meant to know what comes next,” he theorized. “Perhaps one day, when we are old and grey, there will come a time when we may both ride out from Castle Andrak and put this chapter of our lives behind. Perhaps one day.”
Donal resisted the temptation to look decades ahead. He had yet to earn the title of war priest. Trying to imagine what retirement looked like seemed wrong. Most of his life, not that it was overly long, was spent in pursuit of other, better options. He’d never dreamed of becoming a priest until Forlei took him to stand the wall. Now it was his focus. His every desire was bent toward it. All else was secondary.
“It is time we return to the castle,” Quinlan said, after enjoying the last mouthful. He wiped the juice from his lower jaw. “We must discuss alternative strategies for drawing out the F’talle. I fear it is the only way we are going to find him.”
They walked side by side. Those few still in the streets gave them a wide berth. War priests were both feared and revered across the duchies, though a great many refused to believe they existed out of some antiquated superstition. Quinlan cared little for any of it. He’d been mocked, spit on, lavished with gifts, and ignored during his time in the Order. It was part of the role he assumed upon donning the colors.
Mired in reflection, Quinlan barely caught the glimpse of a man crossing the street before them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man, featureless and vague, stop in the middle of the street and wave before continuing on. There was an odd familiarity about him, as if Quinlan knew the man. He blinked and when his eyes opened after a split-second, the man was gone.
Quinlan held his hand out, the back striking Donal in the chest. “Did you see that?”
“What?” Donal asked. His hand dropped to his sword, ready for trouble.
Quinlan squinted, confused. “There was a man in front of us. He stopped here and waved at me.”
Buildings lined the street, preventing anyone from disappearing. Donal glanced behind them but found nothing out of the ordinary. “Brother Quinlan, there is no one around us. What did this man look like?”
He began to suspect another apparition. Was the Other Realm attempting to contact them?
“He wore a faded grey uniform. A stripe ran down his trousers and his boots were coated in mud. I … I could not see his face. He stopped and waved before disappearing.”
“This sounds like the child I saw,” Donal whispered.
Disturbed, Quinlan found no other rational explanation. The dead were walking the streets of Fent, harrying the war priests. They investigated the area thoroughly but produced no results. Whatever had shown itself to Quinlan achieved its purpose and departed. Flesh crawling, Quinlan made the rest of the journey in silence.
“A ghost. Walking my streets in daylight. You’ll understand if I am reserved over this,” Einos said.
His nerves were frayed. Each new event heightened the dangers his people faced and he was powerless to stop it. Ghosts of dead children in his bedchambers were bad enough, but if what Quinlan said was true, ghosts now roamed his lands at will. Am I to rule a kingdom of the dead?
“Would that I had a better answer,” Quinlan replied. He’d come to terms with what he saw, though it left him unsettled. He went on to describe the uniform, all while failing to produce an image of the ghost’s face.
“I know that uniform,” Einos told them. He glanced up as Lizette flowed into the room. There was an air of power surrounding her. His shoulders sagged. Yet another matter he could do without. “It is from my grandfather’s day, though it hasn’t been used in decades. Are you certain?”
“I am,” Quinlan’s answer left no doubt.
Left without answers, Baron and Priest pondered the meaning behind the vision. “Could it have been Brogon Lord?”
“Not unless he’s been dead for a very long time,” Quinlan replied.
“No. He was buried not long ago,” Einos rubbed his chin. Compounding his frustration, there was no record of a soldier, a knight, from Fent in the Baron’s service. He might have been a mercenary, thus earning him the right to be buried with full honors, but Einos felt he would have remembered any such funeral. His records keepers failed to produce anything worth noting on Lord, deepening the mystery.
“Baron, I wish to speak with you,” Lizette announced after the conversation paused. “Brother Quinlan. Donal.”
Wishing for a decanter of wine, Einos closed his eyes and gestured for her to continue. There was no other way of dealing with her and now that his wife was taking a less active role in running the duchy, Lizette stepped forward to fill her position. As if I need two wives.
“I have been doing much thinking of
late,” she started. “Just because abductions aren’t being reported, doesn’t mean the threat is removed. All children remain at risk. To treat the situation otherwise not only places them in jeopardy, but also those who are yet unborn.”
The word struck the intended chord. Einos’s eyes snapped open and he fixed her with a sad look. Thinking of his unborn child being ripped away was sobering. “What more can I do? Kastus has yet to return from the north. My patrols here produce no results. Brogon Lord hasn’t been spotted in over a week. Our efforts to find his lair have failed, and there has been no movement on finding Tender Cannandal’s murderer. I am stuck, Lizette. I cannot move forward, nor go back.”
Quinlan felt sorry for the man. There were many nobles and rulers who were less worthy of the title. Einos ruled as best he could. Always with the people in mind. He didn’t deserve this nightmare.
“There must be something we haven’t tried!” Lizette all but begged. “Baron, these are our children. Families suffer endlessly.”
“I know this, woman!” he snapped. “Do you not think I stay awake at night wondering what I might do better? How I can halt this monster and restore order to Fent? Do not make the mistake of thinking that because I am not personally affected, I do not care.”
“Perhaps there is another way,” Quinlan offered, though he was loath to do so.
Argument ended, they turned to him. “I am listening, War Priest.”
Quinlan detailed his plan. When he finished, Donal’s mouth was ajar.
The next morning found them in the castle’s kitchens, devouring as much as they could. Quinlan knew he was going to need as much strength as possible if there was any chance of success. Fresh baked breads, boiled eggs, leftover ham from the night before, and chunks of white and yellow cheese were accompanied by a pitcher of ale. Quinlan ate with abandon, while Donal picked at his food.
“Are you certain there is no other way?” Donal asked. He liked the idea of Quinlan exposing himself less and less as the morning wore on.
Crumbs spilled from Quinlan’s mouth. “None that I can see. Baron Einos has tried everything within his power, to no avail. Lizette is correct. We must draw out the F’talle. Force the confrontation on our terms.”
“But if you use your magic to draw him here, you’ll be exposed,” Donal protested.
“Precisely why I have you, Donal. Your sword will guard me until I can refocus.”
Donal’s nerves toyed with him. His hands already trembled from the thought of locking swords with a dead knight. “I’m no trained warrior.”
“No, yet you stood the wall for longer than many who were better,” Quinlan reasoned. “I cannot do this without you. This is what you have trained for.”
“I know,” he replied. But I don’t have to like it.
TWENTY-TWO
Brogon Lord’s Grave
The morning was crisp. Blue skies stretched as far as one could see, beckoning with the tranquility of distant horizons forever beyond reach. Wisps of clouds, so thin as to appear transparent, swept by. Any other circumstance and it might have been pleasant, just another autumn day. The pounding beat of horses rumbled deep within the earth. Birds leapt from perches. Deer and smaller animals fled across fields to whatever protections they could find. Six riders swept in behind.
They came from the castle with grave intent. An illness gripped the land of Fent. One that refused to relinquish its hold, while threatening to strangle the land into submission. Baron Einos refused to surrender, knowing that he forfeited the lives of every citizen by doing so. Left without choice, he insisted on accompanying the war priests. Two guards rode behind him. One hand on the reins, the other on their swords. Aneth wished for more, but Brother Quinlan’s insistence that too many present would dilute his abilities. He and Donal followed. Lizette, grieving mother and advocate for the citizenry, was at their side, for she refused to be left behind.
The six represented Fent’s best chance for peace. Einos rode with grave doubt, for he failed to see how any power was great enough to counteract that of the F’talle. A messenger arrived shortly after dawn with word from Kastus. The constable had discovered a conspiracy related to Brogon Lord and the missing children. One with the potential to unravel a great many mysteries. Kastus would return soon but needed more time to finish in Palis. With the rest of the duchy doing their part, how could Einos remain in his castle?
They arrived at the once quiet graveyard to find it deserted. Both groundskeepers were warned away, an order both were too willing to obey. They’d no stomach for the dead rising from the grave. Quinlan dismounted and followed Einos to Lord’s grave. It hadn’t been disturbed since Cannandal attempted to reach out to the once dead man’s soul.
Quinlan knelt, pulling off his glove and gingerly touching his palm to the cold dirt. Flashes of light exploded in his mind and he jerked his hand away. “This does not feel right.”
“You saw something,” Einos whispered.
Quinlan nodded, unsure exactly what. “This area is infused with strange magic. It is almost as if … no. That cannot be.”
“Damn it man, what? Speak plainly,” Einos demanded. He forced a calming breath, frustrated with his inability to do more than stand idle.
“I feel the taint of the Omegri,” Quinlan said.
“How is that possible?” Donal asked. His heart thumped harder. “The Omegri cannot enter our world outside of the crossing points.”
Six crossing points. Six gates preventing the Other Realm from spilling into this one. Five had fallen, destroyed. Only Andrak remained.
“I do not know, but their taint is weak.” Frowning, Quinlan considered what this meant.
The Omegri were insubstantial. Reduced to shadows in this realm. It was long rumored that the F’talle were connected to the great enemy, but there was never any proof. Quinlan suspected that, if the Omegri were indeed behind Brogon Lord and the abductions, they were attempting to bridge the space between realms at a place and time of their choosing. His task became more urgent.
“Clear a space for me. I do not want anyone getting close,” Quinlan ordered.
The guards glanced about, hesitant.
“You heard him, fall back,” Einos barked. “But be ready to attack if necessary.”
He drew his sword for effect.
“Donal, listen to me. I want you standing at the grave marker. If I am successful, the F’talle will appear here. Do not hesitate to strike. It may be our only chance of defeating him,” Quinlan said in rushed tones.
Donal could only nod. The words caught in his throat.
“What if you fail?” Lizette asked. Her fierce demeanor was gone, replaced by the pallid glow of raw terror. Not even the prospect of confronting Tabith’s killer comforted her.
His smile was weak, almost helpless. “Then I wish you all the best of fortune.”
The time for words was ended. Quinlan climbed down into the shallow grave. The ground was soft, almost welcoming. What little remained of the coffin was but slivers. A knight Brogon Lord might have been, but one unworthy of grand ceremony. Quinlan shed his cloak, exposing his armor for the first time since arriving in Fent. The symbol of the war priests, a mighty griffon, was emblazoned on his chest, right above the giant cross stretching across. He drew his sword and breathed deep to calm his nerves and control his heart rate.
Quinlan closed his eyes and plunged his sword deep into the earth. White light bubbled up from the ground. Worms and maggots writhed and tried to escape, only to be burned to cinders. Quinlan chanted. His words an ancient tongue unheard in this land for generations. The light grew.
Donal watched in awe as what he knew to be the essence of the Purifying Flame was channeled through his master. Raw power vibrated all around, reaching up his legs into his very core. The light brightened, forcing him to shield his eyes, lest he go blind. A tremor nearly toppled him. Unable to see, Donal cringed at the gut wrenching cry sweeping over the graveyard.
He forced a look. A figure took s
hape beside the grave. A man. Dead. Decomposing. A man in such agony, that he could not take it. Brogon Lord. The once dead man was summoned. Donal stood in shock. Chasing a name was unlike confronting him. He watched as Lord solidified into a waste of flesh and bones. The urge to wretch gripped him, for never had he gazed upon a being so fell. Donal clutched his sword tightly and prayed his strength stayed with him.
Brogon Lord screamed at the top of his lungs. Dirt and clusters of hair fell from him. Confusion twisted his face. Specks of yellow poked through holes in his cheeks. A charred strip of flesh hung from his right cheek. Brogon glared through the light, attempting to discover who had brought him—unwillingly—back into the realm of the living. His gaze fell on the exposed priest kneeling in his grave. Brogon attacked.
A sharp cry from behind drew his attention, too late to stop the blade from catching in his neck. Infuriated, the once dead man spun and struck his attacker with a backhand to the side of the head. Donal tumbled away, sword skittering to the ground. Brogon waited until he was certain the man wasn’t getting back up.
He turned and found two more swordsmen attacking. Death presented alternative strategies. No longer was he concerned with getting cut or wounded. He was already dead. There was little mortal blades could do. Brogon leapt from the grave and charged into them. Both swords struck glancing blows to his arms and chest. He laughed.
The guards circled, striking only when they found advantage. He let them. Overconfident, one guard tripped too close. Brogon snatched him by the throat and squeezed. Face turning purple, the guard desperately tried to peel Brogon’s fingers from his throat. A final squeeze crushed his windpipe. Brogon cast the body aside and gestured to the now horrified second guard. Unwilling to wait, Brogon burst forward and plunged his fist deep into the guard’s exposed throat, twisting and ripping it back out.
The Children of Never: A War Priests of Andrak Saga (The War Priests of Andrak Saga Book 1) Page 15