The Children of Never: A War Priests of Andrak Saga (The War Priests of Andrak Saga Book 1)

by Christian Warren Freed

  “Your grave marker suggested you were a knight. That means you had a code of honor,” Lizette continued. It was now or never. Her one shot at glory. “Any man worthy of the title could never have accepted this as his final outcome.”

  “A knight.”

  “There must be some semblance of your past still within you, Brogon,” she said.

  His sigh came out a thin rattle. “My name was Brogon Lord. I was a knight.”

  She nodded. “A man of honor.”

  “I … I do not remember.” He stiffened, as if old memories resurfaced and quickly moved away.

  His face contorted. A tooth fell loose, sliding down his armor to hit the ground. Honor. Integrity. Words knights lived by. He allowed his mind to race. Drifting through space and time in a desperate search for his past. Brogon was blocked at every turn. Frustration settled in. his fists clenched. Not unnoticed by Lizette. She pressed.

  “Brogon, listen to me, this is not what you were made for,” she said in whispered tones, pleading with his confusion. “A true knight would never allow himself to be used as a puppet for these inhuman creatures. They have corrupted you. Turned you into a monster.”

  His gaze remained fixed on the clocktower. “I do not remember who I was. Your argument is irrelevant.”

  She refused to accept that answer. “You don’t believe that. How can you? Knights are men of honor. Not kidnappers or … murderers.”

  He stiffened at the word. Anger flared. “I am no coward.”

  “No. I don’t claim you are, but you have been misused by these monsters,” she persisted. “They are using you to commit acts of evil.”

  Brogon turned on her, fixing her with a hollow glare. “What is it you want of me?”

  This was it. Her one chance at getting him to switch sides and rescuing the children. “Help me get these children out of here before it is too late.”

  A faint wind growled across the endless grey plains. Brogon clenched his jaw and continued to stare.

  “We are running out of time.”

  “Impossible. The Omegri are amassing their armies. Once the clocktower is finished, they will spill through entryways across the face of the world. Time is meaningless, here. Time is endless, until we stop it.”

  Nonplussed, the first riposted, “Time is the catalyst for all we seek to achieve. What happens when the tower is not finished on schedule? Your faith in the Omegri is misplaced.”

  “Is it? I do not expect you to understand the true goings on of this endeavor. We have been acquired to perform a task. That task is incomplete until time is stopped,” she replied.

  “You imply the Omegri are capable of waiting forever,” said the third.

  The ting-ting of hammers striking up and down the giant tower echoed over the still. Pulleys groaned as hundreds of children struggled to haul the smaller hand up to the clock face. She would have preferred adults, but the levels of sin corrupting most souls rendered them useless for this endeavor. Only innocence powered this realm. The irony of the contradiction was not lost on her, or the others.

  She mused on the notion that they were close to ending an event that had occurred since the dawning of the world. The barrier thinned. So close. Armies of the Omegri were forming, ready to assault the unsuspecting nations of the world outside of the Burning Season. She scoffed at the name. Humanity was overly simplistic when assigning names. Pedantic ignorance burrowed deep into their psyches. Soon it would all end.

  “They have waited this long. What is time to beings who live outside of it?” she replied.

  “They are an impatient species. Incapable of achieving patience,” the second countered. “We risk invoking their ire by prolonging this task.”

  “We risk nothing. The tower will be finished and the Omegri can have their invasion.”

  “What of the human woman?”

  Dust drifted off her desiccated flesh as she craned her head. “Irrelevant.”

  “She attempts to subsume the F’talle to her cause,” the first stated.

  “To no avail. Brogon Lord is not what he once was,” she snapped. “He is our pawn. A tool to accomplish great ends. No more.”

  “The possibility of his betrayal is real nonetheless. We must neutralize her, while there is still time,” the second added.

  Not adverse to killing, the first studied her companions. Neither were as powerful as she, a point she was clear to develop from their inception. The Other Realm was a place of abstract nightmares. Void of compassion. A haven for suffering. She had designs to escape into the realm of the living, knowing that to do so would invite a plague upon humanity that had never been witnessed.

  “The woman has not succeeded. She will die when the children are slaughtered,” she said, her voice terse with restrained rage.

  That was enough to placate the others. They each nodded and slipped away to charcoal colored dust on the stagnant air. Oh yes. The woman will die, for only innocent souls will open the paths to the living world once time has stopped. Satisfied that all was happening accordingly, she resumed her watch on the great clocktower, ignorant of the first steps of treason being taken not far away.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Gunn

  The village of Gunn was less than half a day’s ride east of Fent and quaint. There were no official estimates, but Einos believed it held less than five hundred citizens, most of whom were elderly. Nestled at the base of the southern slopes of the Amrous Mountains and a league from a swath of untamed forests, Gunn was the perfect place to retire. One day, when he was old and grey, Einos hoped to bring his wife back where they might reestablish their household and watch their final years pass by. Given recent events, it was a slender hope.

  The column rode into Gunn at midday without fanfare or forewarning. A handful of scouts had ridden ahead to ensure there were no lurking surprises. None returned with reports, prompting Einos to suspect the village was exactly as advertised. A quiet, out-of-the-way place for people to forget the troubles of the day. Mustering as much confidence as he had remaining, the Baron of Fent rode into Gunn as a conqueror.

  His only hindrance was the army. Captain Thep insisted they went first. Treason and violence were the commerce of the duchy. They’d witnessed it, in some minor degree, in Palis and refused to allow Einos to ride in without protection. Squads formed in front of the Baron, house guards and his personal retainers, as well as on both flanks. Weapons were drawn and readied—against Einos’s wishes. He had no intention of coming to Gunn to attack. These were his people. His wife’s family as well.

  Thep would have none of it. His primary concern was the Baron’s safety. All other considerations paled. He refused to watch another situation like Palis develop. Gunn had no idea what was happening as armed soldiers marched down the single road splitting the village. Those daring few poked heads out doors and windows. Some gawked openly as they spied Einos. Others worried that the duchy’s troubles had at last found them. It was with tepid reluctance the village elders organized themselves for presentation.

  A brindle colored dog raced across the road, barking at horse and rider. Autumn breeze swayed the red leafed abris trees lining both sides of the road. Golden sunlight turned the southern fields into an ocean of warmth. Einos had always enjoyed this time of year most. When the world was changing. Lush greens were well and fine, but it was the diversity of color that appealed to him. Red, orange, yellow, brown, and a hint of pale blue as leaves turned and began to fall.

  A quiet time to sit on the shores of the great lake bordering the northern edge. He recalled with fondness how he and Aneth spent days nestled among the trees and plush grasses there. It was a peace he could only wish to return to. For Baron Einos, the joy of living was fading. Slipping into that awkward space no man willingly dared look. The upcoming birth of his first child—how he’d gone through life without producing any remained a mystery neither he nor Aneth were willing to explore—promised brighter days, but he was unsure if those days were coming. So much had gone w
rong in the span of a few shorts weeks, he lacked confidence.

  “Baron, the village is secure,” Thep said with a crisp salute.

  Einos struggled to nod, broken from his thoughts. Drawing a deep breath, he took a good look at the village. Multi-colored roofs lined the road, adding flavor to an otherwise drab village. He knew he should have felt secure. Gunn was as close to the heart of his kingdom as his castle. There hadn’t been any expressed sentiment in opposition. So why was he worried?

  “Have the elders been assembled?” he asked.

  “They have and are being escorted here as we speak, sir,” Thep explained. His defiant look dared Einos to question that decision.

  “Not quite the diplomatic entry I expected. Are you sure they will cooperate?”

  “They have been told what happened in Palis in no uncertain terms. I believe each will behave accordingly, sir.” Thep’s confidence was inspiring, despite the knowledge that they were all citizens of Fent.

  Einos chewed on his inner lip. It was a habit he’d had since childhood, developed from endless hours of waiting for his father to deliver some form of punishment or another. “Captain, I have doubts about the intensity we are attempting to convey here. There is no reason to suspect the citizens are in league with our foes.”

  “Baron, I understand your concerns and echo them to an extent. My mission is to keep you safe and ensure the duchy is represented. Both tasks are to be conducted by any means necessary,” Thep replied dryly.

  “He is right,” Quinlan interrupted after seeing Einos open and close his mouth too many times for matters to remain calm. “These are dangerous times. Those you think loyal might well be the first waiting for the moment to stab you in the back. Caution is prudent here, at least until we discover what, if anything, Gunn has to do with Brogon Lord.”

  Einos didn’t doubt the authenticity of the statement, nor was he disillusioned to think Dalem had nothing to do with the unwillingness of the people to greet him properly. Not that he blamed them. Having a sclarem ride into your village was as confusing as it was frightening. These were days of walking legends. Fent might never recover.

  A commotion halfway down the road drew his attention. Einos swallowed as he saw his father in law head his way, leaning heavily on his cane. Flanking him were the other elders. It was a reunion he wished for under different circumstances. They halted several meters apart, each side sizing up the other’s intentions.

  “Einos. It has been a long time.”

  “It has, Hintul. You look well,” Einos replied.

  The Elder snorted. “I look like shit. Wait until you get this old and others tell you the same lie. How is my daughter?”

  “Well, though this matter has put unnecessary strain on her and the baby.”

  Hintul shifted his weight to the opposite leg. “All care must be taken to ensure the child is born without stress. It is the future of this duchy. I assume you are here because of the once dead man.”

  It was a statement, not a question. Word had travelled across the duchy, to every village. There were precious few secrets left for Einos to defend. “We are. I think it best we speak indoors. There are prying ears eager for gossip.”

  “You have no enemies in Gunn, Einos.” Hintul’s eyes narrowed at the perceived insult. “But you are the Baron. It shall be as you say. You are always welcome in my home.”

  Einos reserved his comments stating otherwise. Theirs was a tumultuous relationship. Not that he didn’t like Aneth’s father, but they were of different generations. The span of decades often led to disagreements and the inability for either to see the other’s point of view. It was part of the reason Einos seldom visited. The same could be said in opposite, for he had last seen Hintul almost a year before Aneth announced her pregnancy.

  Resigned to his course of action, Einos slid from the saddle and walked beside Hintul back to his estate. The mission in Gunn promised to be more stressful than he wished.

  Einos yawned, excused himself, and left the dining chamber to stretch. He was sore from a day in the saddle and the near constant grilling of the village elders. One, he noticed, that seemed to go both ways. Exhausted, the Baron of Fent left the elders to the careful interrogation of Brother Quinlan and Dalem. That unlikely combination proved effective enough to throw everyone involved off their defenses. A cough drew his attention.

  A slender woman stood atop the staircase, clutching the marble bannister in her right hand. Her long, silver hair flowed past her shoulders, importing a sense of majesty. The lines on her face were superficial, offering little evidence of anything more than age. The alacrity in her eyes whispered much.

  “Loreli,” Einos said with a polite bow.

  Her smile, unlike her husband’s greeting, was warm. Genuine. “Einos, it has been too long. Where is my daughter?”

  Einos explained, though he suspected she already knew most of it. Her husband was never one for keeping secrets.

  Loreli glided down the stairs. The hem of her forest green dress scuffing as she walked. “What is the real reason for your visit? It is my understanding that events are transpiring to the north and west. Why Gunn?”

  “We have discovered evidence that the once dead man is from Gunn, Loreli,” he said without hesitation. “His name was Brogon Lord.” The guarded look she gave inspired fresh confidence and he continued. “I need to find where he lived in the hopes of gaining an advantage over him. Every tactic I have tried thus far has been defeated.”

  “Brogon Lord.”

  “You know of him, don’t you,” he said.

  She nodded. The move so slight, he barely noticed. “The Lords were once prominent members of Gunn. I’m surprised Aneth never mentioned them.”

  “Why would she?” he asked.

  Loreli reached out to touch his forearm and answered.

  “This doesn’t look like a fancy mansion to me,” Alfar said with a wry grin.

  The ruins were barely a story high with no functioning rooms or chambers. Time and weather combined to bring what might have been a grand home to ruin. Cobwebs decorated corners. Vermin scurried out of sight as the soldiers spread out. Vegetation had returned to claim this part of the land, transforming the building into a miniature ecosystem.

  Nils grimaced, refraining from telling his peer to shut up. “We shouldn’t be here. There’s nothing to see.”

  “You two geniuses figured that out for yourselves, eh?”

  Nils winced as Sergeant Sava slid between them. “No, Sergeant.”

  “Captain thinks otherwise. You and farm boy here go in and reconnoiter. I want to know every detail of this place before I send in the leadership. Understood?” Sava instructed.

  “Sure thing, Sarge!” Alfar replied too enthusiastically.

  He and Nils hurried away. Neither wanted to get Sava after them, again.

  Once they were deep within the heart of the building, Nils grabbed Alfar by the neck and spun him around. “I swear, the next time you do that, I am going to kill you. Damn the consequences.”

  He shoved the younger Alfar away.

  Stunned, the young soldier brushed the wrinkles from his uniform. “What did I do? I was just trying to lighten the mood. No harm in being friendly.”

  “You’re impossible,” Nils snorted and continued on.

  They returned with nothing to report, leaving Thep with the feeling that they’d arrived at a dead end. Once again it seemed the once dead man was a step ahead of them. He and Sava had the company comb every inch of the ruins. Aside from random family heirlooms that were meaningless to anyone other than the deceased Lords, they found nothing. Disappointment threatened to lower morale.

  “We need to report back to the Baron. This expedition provided nothing of significance,” he said to Sava.

  The sergeant spit a rope of kappa juice in agreement. “Sir, we’ve got to be missing something. The whole damned Lord clan lived right here, even the once dead man. If I were a loyal son, I’d be looking for a way to come back here.�
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  “To what end? They are all dead,” Thep countered. He gestured with his right arm. “There is no reason for him to return. Not unless …”

  “Unless what?” Sava asked.

  “Unless this is where he moves between realms,” Thep concluded.

  An odd smell clung to the air. One Quinlan couldn’t quite place. His stomach soured, suggesting death was nearby. Arms crossed, he and Donal stood on the bank of a wide stream. They watched as the sclarem hunted through the reeds and dormant grasses that hadn’t fallen yet. Silver fish circled at their feet, as if eager to see what food might drop in. The war priest dipped his boot in the water, amused by their aggressive reaction.

  Dalem moved through the mud and water with familiarity, prompting Quinlan to wonder where his species originally came from. He’d never encountered a sclarem before and had no knowledge of their past. He suspected the power of the green skinned man was far greater than his own and was glad they were allies. Stopping Brogon Lord was going to prove difficult and he had already been found lacking.

  They’d searched a handful of small caves with no results. Daylight was fading as were their hopes. Reporting failure back to Baron Einos wasn’t in their best interests. The duchy was on the brink of chaos. He felt it ride the air. All it needed was a spark before the conflagration spread from village to village. Mired in his fears, Quinlan failed to see Dalem disappear.

  “Where did he go?” he asked, unfolding his arms to reach for his sword.

  Donal pointed. “There. He must have found another cave.”

  Tense moments dragged by. Quinlan felt helpless, even while knowing this was part of the task. Each time Dalem entered a cave heightened the chances of making contact. Thus far, Quinlan was too large to follow, frustrating him to great lengths. He began to pace. Quinlan lacked patience, or perhaps it had eroded since arriving in Fent.