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

by Christian Warren Freed

  “Listen to me, Baron Einos. My daughter is one of the missing and if what you say is accurate, dead. I am just as much a part of this as any of you and I will not be denied the opportunity to avenge her.”

  Impressed and rebuked, Einos relented. “Very well, very well. Perhaps you can help with the families.”

  Lizette’s face remained hard, etched in grief. She nodded her reply.

  Einos glared at Bert and Lex. “You two, fill in this grave and fix the tombstone. I don’t care if Lord is interred or not. The people need know no different. Am I clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Sire!”

  Satisfied, Einos brushed off his hands. He, Kastus, and Lizette walked away from the empty grave, each lost in thought, none piecing the puzzle together. The sudden rash of missing children must have significance or else the culprit was a deviant with the taste for children. Einos did not recall the name Brogon Lord and that disturbed him. The location of the grave and the sword cut into the tombstone under his name suggested Lord had been of some importance. Perhaps even a knight. Why then didn't he know the name?

  Einos reluctantly allowed his thoughts to consider Brogon having been mistakenly thought dead and buried. Ridiculous, but still. Einos feared the number of missing children might be enough to break his people. If they are a sliver as disturbed by this as I am, recovery will be long in coming. I only hope Kastus solves this mystery before mass hysteria sets in.

  Einos knew that it all meant nothing if the Grey Wanderer was indeed more than myth. His mother once indulged his inquiries and explained that none knew the Wanderer’s purpose. She said he was an instrument left over from a more violent time when gods roamed the world and myths grew around them. Magic was real, else how could the entire city of Mistwell float above the ground without fear of falling? A floating city he could deal with. The Grey Wanderer was an entirely different thing.

  FOUR

  Fent

  The cave was dank, reminiscent of the eternal confines of the grave. Mold grew on the walls and in dark corners. The air was musty with the smell. Cobwebs sprawled across the rough stone surface, their creators long dead. Moss and windblown leaves carpeted a large part of the sloping floor. Bones from random creatures littered the area, remnants of meals past. The low hills south of the village of Fent were littered with hundreds of such places. Places for those who wanted to remain unseen.

  Brogon Lord took comfort in the quasi-darkness. His unexpectedly short time spent in the cold forever of death inspired new appreciation for the merits of life, even in solitude. There, alone in his cave, beyond the mortal concerns governing the world, he closed his eyes in thought. Memories were blurred. He knew who he was, rather who he’d once been. What he was and what he’d been doing when death came for him, remained obscured. Not that either mattered. His time spent in the grave, where a deserved rest from his sins was assured, was ended.

  Fragments of images struck between his eyes with a blinding pain. Brogon jerked back, his hand flying to his face to quell the agony. He watched a sword pierce thin leather armor and then there was an unstoppable flow of blood. Cold. Dark.

  “I remember,” he whispered.

  Brogon dropped his hand to his side. Dirt coated fingertips traced the outline of the wound. Why am I dead? There was no answer. Death had come and taken him beyond. The greater mystery was who had returned him to the world above and for what purpose. He felt no mortal feelings, no hunger, no anger, no sorrow. He had no will of his own and no bodily needs. He occasionally snatched rodents or birds to eat, purely from forgotten instinct, rather than to fill a hungry stomach.

  The darkness provided scant comfort from the ravages of his humiliation. Brogon dipped his fingers into the wound, oddly disturbed by the cold, necrotic feel of his flesh. He attempted to piece the past back together. Armor. He saw the boiled leather plate armor. Only soldiers wore this. Soldiers or sell swords. Brogon didn’t know whether he had been an honorable man or not, but the armor suggested he made his way with a sword. Fitting he died by a sword.

  Crouched under the low ceiling, Brogon made his way to the mouth of the cave. A slight breeze touched his face, prompting him to close his eyes in a moment of bliss. A forgotten pleasure? An indulging of fleshly delights? The burning began again. A now all too familiar itch buried deep in his nervous system. It was a song, a haunting sound driving him to perform foul deeds. The masters called, and he was helpless to resist. Pulled out of the cave by the sound, the creature that was once Brogon Lord began the hunt again. Dark had fallen. There was work to be done.

  *****

  “You’ve barely touched your food.”

  Einos continued to stare out the ceiling high window to his right, his mind sorting through the confessions and examples of what could only be described as atrocities occurring within the borders of his duchy. How had this escape his attention for so long? That such evil would befall his people seemed inconceivable. More so, why now and to what purpose? Murderers were known to range across the lands. That much was no secret. He’d caught drippings of information mentioning such men and generally, their ultimate demise. But what was happening in Fent?

  “Einos?”

  The sound of his name jerked him back to reality. He glanced across the table at his wife. He had no doubt she knew some of what was happening. Aneth was a smart woman, perhaps smarter and wiser than he. Einos didn’t know how much to tell her or where to begin. Events were picking up with surreal ferocity.

  “My apologies, but my mind has been troubled for some time,” he excused.

  The arch of Aneth’s eyebrow suggested a lack of surprise. “Truly? What purpose have I as Baroness of Fent, if my husband refuses to express his concerns to me? I am not an ornament to be worn on your arm in public, Einos.”

  “I know, my sweet, but this is … different,” he said.

  Einos would never know what compelled him to tell Aneth everything, but he did. He talked and she listened as they spent the rest of their evening in horror with no small amount of tears as he relayed every detail of what he knew. The roast pheasant cooled. The bread hardened, but the wine they drank, as each struggled to make sense of what he was describing. Aneth’s arms wrapped protectively around her stomach holding their child.

  Her questions went largely unanswered, for he had no answer. For how a man could rise from the grave to murder innocent children. Or how seventeen children had already disappeared. Einos confessed his feelings of failure, only to be scolded for what Aneth termed brash foolishness. He was the Baron of a small duchy and expected to act to the level of his station.

  “I do not know what to do next,” he admitted.

  Aneth reached for his hand. She ran her fingertips over the silky hairs thoughtfully. “We are not equipped to combat the supernatural, Einos. There is little choice in my mind.”

  “Why should they concern themselves with our business? They spend their days warding the world from the Omegri. Our problems are our own, Aneth.”

  “Nonsense. What other purpose do they serve other than the protection of all people?” Aneth asked.

  Einos sighed. He knew she was right. They were the only viable option, but it was his stubborn pride preventing him from admitting it. His failure to protect his people left him depressed.

  “What does Kastus say?” Aneth asked.

  Einos snorted a laugh. “He is against outside intervention. Lizette however urged me to send a messenger from the first.”

  “Perhaps our grieving mother is wiser than we give her credit for. Do it, Einos. Summon the war priests. They have magic and the necessary tools to stop the creatures of The Grey Wanderer,” Aneth’s voice turned cold at the mention of the old man, as if invoking his name was a summons.

  Einos felt a cold draft creep down his nape, though whether from the wind or his rising imagination, he didn't know. His mind was locked in turmoil. Asking the war priests to come was admitting failure. Fent may be among the smaller duchies but he’d r
uled with integrity, always looking to the needs of his people first. Without them, he was a mere figurehead in an aging castle.

  However, if he did nothing and continued on the same course, the population would rebel. Not out of disloyalty but from fear. Seventeen children he presumed were dead and there was no foreseeable end. Unrest was already growing. Commerce slowed. Parents kept their children close by. Armed vigilantes roamed the streets against Kastus’s orders. They were disbanded as quickly as the true soldiers discovered them. None of that made Einos’ decision any easier.

  “If I send for them, there is the very real possibility of them assuming command,” he cautioned. “Are you prepared to live under their governance?”

  Aneth laughed, a golden song bright and encouraging. “My love, the war priests are not concerned with the village of Fent. They have more important matters to attend.”

  The war priests were known the world over without actually being known. What occurred in their mystic keeps, segregated from the rest of the world, was kept secret from the public. Though the priests were often spotted roaming the countryside, very few of the everyday citizenry had any interaction with them. Many considered the Order dangerous, providing the basis of Einos’ hesitancy.

  “Perhaps, though I do not know if I have the courage to invite them in,” Einos admitted. He felt embarrassment for the admission.

  “Einos, what other choice is there?” Aneth asked. “We cannot continue losing our children. Send the messengers to Castle Andrak.”

  His head dropped. The last vestige of resistance crushed. Aneth patted his hand and said, “Now, husband, we must eat. There are difficult times ahead of us and we need out strength.”

  Kastus and Lizette entered the meeting chamber side by side. Einos no longer found it odd, for the pair was oddly inseparable. More, she walked with newfound purpose and an impressive confidence matched by few in his command. Eyes once filled with sorrow, now were filled with steel. He wondered if her loss had broken her. No person could deal with the knowledge that their child had been stolen from their home in the middle of the night by a man risen from the grave without breaking.

  “Baron,” Lizette said with a small curtsy.

  “Please, be seated,” Einos said.

  Kastus remained standing as the Baron began.

  “My lovely wife has helped clear the fog in my mind. Kastus, as much as it pains me to admit, we do lack the resources necessary to stop this evil menacing Fent. I have decided to summon the war priests.”

  His final words echoed, their certainty echoed by the stone walls. Einos watched his friend and Lizette, studying their reactions to his decision. Lizette straightened, her head rising slightly in approval. Kastus, predictably, remained apprehensive. Like Einos, he felt personal responsibility for events in Fent. Any failure on the Baron’s part was inflated tenfold for the Constable.

  “There must be another way,” Kastus protested. She knew the rumors and they terrified her. Magic was thing for other races, not the frail hands of man.

  Einos shook his head. “I have looked at this problem from every angle, and I fail to find a viable option. The coming of the Grey Wanderer changes much, my friend. We are not equipped to combat the supernatural.”

  “I agree with your decision, Baron,” Lizette said. “Enough time has already been wasted, and if by calling on the war priests we are able to prevent another family from losing their child, I fail to see why we should delay.”

  Einos regarded her a moment longer than necessary. Timid and lost when she first entered his presence, Lizette was growing into a strong personality. Provided she continued her transitional development, Einos saw her assuming a permanent role among his core leadership.

  “They are not to be trusted,” Kastus reinforced his previous statement. “How many instances of these priests actually helping people are recorded? Yet, they demand subservience to fight faceless creatures none of us in this room have seen. We have enough men at arms to find this Brogon Lord and return him to the grave.”

  Einos wanted to slam his head into the table. “Kastus, finding Brogon and killing him–again–isn’t the problem. We must learn the reason the Wanderer chose to come to Fent and we must find out what is being done with our children.”

  “The latter seems simple enough.” Kastus remained defiant.

  Unwilling to enter a debate, Einos winced and pinched the bridge of his nose. In a low voice he said, “Messengers will be dispatched today. In the meantime, I expect you to increase patrols throughout the duchy. Killing Brogon Lord is not your priority, Kastus. Protecting the children is.”

  Scowling, the Constable asked, “If my men happen across him?”

  “I want him captured and brought to me,” Einos ordered. Despite contrary evidence, he clung to hope that at least some of the missing children still drew breath. Vanity was ever the torment of good men, however.

  Satisfied for the moment, Kastus softened his stance.

  Lizette took advantage of the silence. “Baron, the first of today’s families have arrived.”

  There had been a time, a mere week earlier, when his days consisted of relatively pointless meetings and unending boredom. Oh how he wished for those days to return.

  FIVE

  Castle Andrak

  The alabaster walls of Castle Andrak stretched up from the depths of the world to touch the sky. They glowed with built in power. Built at the end of an all but forgotten peninsula on the far eastern coast, Andrak was not only a place of importance but one of constant battle and servitude. Men and women from across the duchies volunteered to stand the walls against the oppressing night. It was a thankless task, void of glory or reward. Life and death forever warred upon the ramparts.

  Andrak was old. Almost as old as the world itself. Time had lost the truth of the original builders, though legends claimed golden godlings descended from the skies to construct the six sided wonder in a single night. More conventional theorists claimed it was built from the sweat of captured slaves over the course of a century. The one thing scholars agreed on was that Andrak was one of six castles built along the same lay line circling the globe. Their purpose was obvious; keep the Omegri from returning from the void and bringing the world to utter chaos and despair.

  A massive tower loomed over the center of the courtyard. The current Lord General of the war priests occupied the very top where he could watch each day’s battle unfold. Some said he was a necromancer, others a powerful sorcerer. Only the Lord General knew for sure and he was not a man given to prolonged conversation. War priests patrolled the outer wall, resplendent in their pale blue armor and snow-covered cloaks. Silver crosses decorated their chests, matched by larger versions on the alloy shields each war priest carried.

  Guard towers built into each of the six corners housed spare weapons and armor. On the worst nights, the defenders could come in and get a hot cup of soup or coffee to ease the sufferings nature threw at them. There was, however, a curious lack of seating. None took their jobs more seriously than the war priests. They suffered so that others might enjoy.

  Sky blue banners emblazoned with the mighty gryphon, a symbol of power and righteousness, waved proudly on the morning winds. Despite the proximity to danger, the war priests lived under the simple yet proud motto, “fear no darkness.” A more fitting example of courage was not to be found.

  Lord General Rosca had worn the blue for more decades than he remembered. A lifetime of service to the light, to the Purifying Flame buried deep within the hallowed walls. His body bore the scars of numerous battles and close calls. His face was lined and weathered. Life at Andrak was harsh in the best conditions. Time and age conspired to place more weight than he cared for around his waist and neck, without stealing any of his martial prowess. Rosca was the definition of a hard man.

  He sat before the modest fire in his private quarters in his favorite chair, high backed and cushioned to relieve some of the day’s stress. In his right hand was clenched an unrolled p
archment. The messenger waited in the dining hall. The Burning Season was still some months away and Andrak was quieted by the lack of activity. Rosca reread the message for what felt like the tenth time before closing his eyes.

  Rosca couldn’t accept what he read. Couldn’t believe that they were loose upon the world again. So much effort wasted, not to mention the number of lives spent trying to eradicate the disease. He hadn’t felt a failure this great since his early days with the Order. Setting the parchment down, Rosca rubbed his aching temples. Sleep beckoned. Any decision made now would be born from passion, emotion. Two factors known to get men killed. Still, what choice did he have?

  The gentle rap on his outer door dismissed any notion of rest. Scowling, Rosca rose, adjusted his armor, and crossed the wide room. His chambers were among the few with true hardwood flooring that were heated through the central furnace system. Indulgences were largely forbidden among the priests, but he saw no reason for unnecessary suffering when there was enough to be had for all on the ramparts each Burning Season.

  He cracked the door and warned, “This had better be good or you’ll be walking the walls for the next ten damned years.”

  A young novice swallowed his fear, eyes bulging at the threat. “Lord General, Brother Quinlan has arrived, as you ordered.”

  Rosca resisted the temptation to retort that he knew why the man had come. The novice was only doing his job and an unenviable one at that. “Send him in.”

  Grateful to have escaped further wrath, the novice bowed and tripped over his robes as he hurried away. Rosca almost chuckled, remembering his own days of awkwardness when he was first brought to Andrak. Like most priests, he began his career as a knight’s squire. Every Burning Season, the knights arrived with delusions of grandeur and boasts of martial prowess. The Omegri tested and broke the vast majority well before the hundred days of service were ended.