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

by Christian Warren Freed

  Quinlan arrived without additional announcement, slipping into the chamber at Rosca’s welcoming gesture. The younger priest was already a man of considerable experience. Enough for Rosca to consider him among the short list of qualified candidates to replace him, when the time came.

  “Lord General, I came as soon as Telas relayed your message,” Quinlan began.

  “That’s his name? Telas?” Rosca grunted.

  Quinlan concealed his smile. The old man appeared rough and surly but some of the priests knew he had a secret, a humorous side few ever witnessed.

  “It is. He comes from a village near Mistwell.”

  The floating city of merchants was famed across the world for wealth and information, though the two were often interchangeable. Quinlan hadn’t been there in years, not since he was last dispatched to discover the truth behind numerous missing sons and daughters of highborn nobles rumored to have been captured by the Witch Queen of Calad Reach.

  “Dark times are approaching, Quinlan.” Rosca wasted no time. His dour expression emphasized the lines scarring his face. “We received word from Fent of the Grey Wanderer.”

  Quinlan stiffened, suddenly uncomfortable. The priests often protected the lands from mystic creatures, but the Wanderer had not been witnessed in years. “Are they certain? That is not a name to be cast lightly.”

  “The Baron seems fairly positive in his missive. There is more,” Rosca paused, allowing Quinlan’s mind to finish tracing through potential outcomes and scenarios. “He also reports that since the initial sighting, nearly twenty children have gone missing and a man has risen from the grave.”

  “A F’talle? They are rumored to be extinct. Why would the Wanderer resurrect one now?” Quinlan asked.

  “That is what I need you to find out,” Rosca added. “Quinlan, you and I have seen incredible sights here on these walls and throughout the lands. Sights no person should have to endure, yet we accept each as truth and meet the challenge head on. If this man has indeed become a F’talle he must be found and dealt with accordingly.”

  “When do I leave?”

  Rosca finally relaxed, thankful the task of convincing one of his finest priests was easier than he had thought. “As soon as you can and take your squire with you.”

  “Donal? His youth and inexperience may prove a liability,” Quinlan said.

  Rosca ran his index finger over the cushioned arm of the chair in a well-rehearsed move. Red felt gathered beneath the nail. “He’s survived the Burning Season and is as close to priesthood as it is possible to be without actually being conferred. Unless you have reservations about your ability to train him properly …”

  “Not at all, but he has not been exposed to the Grey Wanderer’s manipulations,” Quinlan refused to take the obvious bait. Donal Sawq was a fine young man and proving most capable. He would be a welcome addition to the Order, once his training was complete.

  “The situation may not be as bad as Baron Einos makes it seem,” Rosca countered. “Initial reports are usually based on rumor and hearsay. It falls on you to discern the truth. Get to Fent and break this mystery. Regardless of whether the Wanderer tales are true, Einos is certain about the missing children.”

  “This could be related to the Witch Queen,” Quinlan suggested. “She’s been known to operate like this before.”

  “Possibly, but this feels different,” Rosca said. “Make your preparations. Take what you need but leave soon. I fear time is not on our side.”

  Quinlan left the Lord General feeling more tense than before. There was evil afoot and the war priests might prove the only line of defense. Rosca couldn’t shake the notion that the Burning Season would be upon them soon and that these incidents were related.

  *****

  Towering a hundred feet over the scorched, dead earth rose the half completed structure. Tiny figures scurried about the base, hauling supplies and carrying old stone and wood away. Scaffoldings ringed the building. Hundreds of torches lit every inch of it, for the surrounding world was dark and empty. There was no warmth or natural light here, and the workers suffered. Hammers striking nail and rock echoed across the void. Bodies lay stacked in a small pile off to the side. Daily casualties were discarded and burned each night. Their desiccated flesh helped grow the monstrosity.

  Shadows crowded around the workers. Each shadow, shapeless and indefinable, was a being alien to the world. Their existence threatened to undo the fabric of mortal life, while transforming the world in their horrid image. Brogon Lord stood among the shadows, wraiths he had come to call master. Confusion continued to plague him. Old memories remained just beyond his grasp, leaving him a shell of whatever he might have been.

  Anger returned. Revenge didn’t matter. He reckoned he would never learn who took his life or why. All that mattered was the whispering bells calling him here. Brogon gazed up at the structure, wondering its purpose.

  Who or what the masters were was a mystery. Shapeless, they communicated directly to his mind. Brogon found their intrusions debasing, yet he was powerless to resist. The masters controlled all in their realm with iron domination. He was merely a puppet, dancing on their strings. Their will was his reason for being, no matter that it disgusted any small dignity he retained.

  Fidgeting at his side drew his attention away from construction. Brogon looked down at the small child standing beside him. Children. He’d lost count of how many he’d taken from the waking world. All he knew was the masters demanded more. More children to work the mechanisms within the heart of their constructions. The confusion and anguish in the child’s eyes touched him.

  “Please, I want to go home,” the child said with a high pitched voice.

  Brogon felt torn, just as he had the first twenty times he was forced to perform his task. Even if he wanted to, he had no ability to set the child free. Like himself, the boy was now trapped in eternal misery. Death would come quickly, if the child was fortunate. Otherwise …

  “There is nothing to be done. You belong to them now,” Brogon said.

  The boy froze as a pair of grotesquely disfigured people limped his way. Neither wore clothes but both suffered from numerous broken bones and abrasions. Cracked lips and broken skin decorated their emaciated bodies. Brogon thought they would be better off dead and in the ground, for this was no way to live.

  The woman raised her skeletal arm and beckoned the child with crooked finger. Obeying without question, the child moved forward. Brogon watched the child led away to become part of the nightmare steadily nearing completion. His task was finished for the day. Time now to return to the cave until he was summoned again.

  SIX

  Castle Andrak

  Dawn crawled over the timeworn and battered walls of Andrak. The men and women within set about their daily affairs. Preparations were already underway to accept the incoming group of knights selected to defend the land from the Omegri. Though still weeks away, much needed to be done to refit the priests and their armories. Each Burning Season, the hundred day period when the Omegri sought to return to the world and lay claim, ended with massive loss of life and equipment. Replacing and repairing the damages occupied most of the time in between.

  Quinlan balanced the sword Master Sergeant Cron offered, testing the weight and handling. All priests were renowned fighters versed in various weaponry and masters of martial skills. Quinlan preferred a two handed sword, though he was skilled in the use of the short bow as well. Killing held no appeal for any of the priests. Rosca ensured that. The war priests were taught that all life was precious and killing was an act to be committed only when no other option remained.

  “Fresh out the forge,” Cron explained, approving the gleam in Quinlan’s eyes as he swung the sword. “I’d claim it myself, but you seem to have more need at the moment.”

  Quinlan didn’t argue. There was no way of knowing what he was going to find when he arrived in Fent. Danger was an ever present hound to many of the priests. Their lives were forfeit should ag
ents of the Omegri catch them unaware. His fingers curled around the hilt with practiced ease.

  “The weight is good. I like the way it sings when I cut,” Quinlan said.

  Cron nodded. The salt and pepper scruff on his face would be gone by the time the new group of knights arrived. It was the one luxury Cron allowed himself during downtime. He watched the younger Quinlan with measure. Many of the priests thought too much of themselves. Quinlan was different. Humble and modest, the man had fought more than his share of misdeeds and dark times.

  “I had the smiths make it just for you,” Cron lied. “Need an old hand to accompany you? I grow tired of being locked within these walls.”

  “The Lord General will never let one of his most valuable assets skulk about the countryside on what may well be a duck hunt,” Quinlan countered.

  Wind tousled his sand colored hair. Relatively young for an experienced priest, Quinlan was lightly muscled with piercing blue eyes. He sheathed the sword and sat atop a pile of hay bales stacked against the stable wall.

  Cron snorted and spat. “Too much time here robs me of what I once was. Robs us all. Do you know how many cycles of knights I’ve tried to train? How many graves I helped fill?”

  “We are given to a higher purpose, Cron.”

  “Don’t try selling me on the recruiting nonsense,” Cron replied with faux anger. “I’ve been here almost as long as you’ve drawn breath, whelp.”

  “Sounds like retirement is calling,” Quinlan laughed.

  Cron chuckled and sat beside his friend. “I wish you the best, my friend. The Grey Wanderer is naught to mess with. I don’t envy what you’re about to undertake.”

  “Neither do I, Cron. Neither do I.”

  He rose, extending his hand. They clasped forearms, each wondering if they’d gather for an ale once the mission was complete. A longstanding tradition among the Order was the return celebration. Glory was attributed to the individual, while the Order grew stronger. Cron knew these opportunities were rare, despite the number of occasions when he was forced to watch friends ride off into harm’s way.

  “The light protect you,” he said.

  Quinlan dipped his head. “Fear no darkness.”

  The war priests separated, Cron returning to his offices, with Quinlan entering the stables where Donal was already busied preparing their mounts. Saddlebags were filled and stacked against the first stall. Quinlan watched as Donal brushed his favored mount’s mane. It was, Quinlan noted with bemusement, the same horse Donal had ridden on his initial journey to Andrak some two years ago. Understanding the emotional attachment, the war priest went to do the same.

  “Brother Quinlan, all that remains is to saddle up,” Donal reported.

  His youthful face betrayed inexperience. Fighting the Omegri was one matter. Scouring the duchies for a resurrected man, far more complicated. Quinlan placed great faith in his novice. Donal had shown immense fortitude while taking the place of his former squire after the man was killed on the walls. It was through Donal’s observations that the war priests were able to determine one of their own had succumb to the predations of the Omegri and tried to betray them by destroying the Purifying Flame.

  “Very good, Donal. We should be going soon. I want to clear these lands before sundown,” Quinlan instructed.

  “Yes, sir,” Donal bobbed his head. Giving his horse a final pat, the novice tucked his brush in a saddlebag and hurried about his tasks.

  Quinlan regarded him a moment longer, ensuring the youth was sufficiently armed. The threat level he expected to find was substantially increased over the violence service at Andrak offered. Donal wore a short sword strapped at the hip and a dagger tucked inside his left boot. Two quivers filled with arrows sat among their gear, along with a pair of bows for both hunting game and villains. The war priest didn’t know if that would be enough to stop the evil manifesting in Fent.

  Priest and novice were soon mounted and heading out of the gates. Castle Andrak was built at the end of a peninsula several leagues long. Mist and fog occluded vision after a few meters on either side. It was widely theorized that the castle wasn’t part of the physical world, instead built in the in-between where the immaterial lurked. Quinlan didn’t know for certain nor did he much care. He served the Order without question. What lurked in those quiet places unwitnessed by the waking world, held limited power over a war priest.

  Donal failed to share Quinlan’s lack of concern. The young squire shivered as the mists curled in around his ankles. Each sensation was a new experience, changing each time a priest entered or exited the peninsula. This was only Donal’s third expedition outside of Andrak. Much of his previous life was forgotten, put aside to focus on the battle with the Omegri. His time spent as Sir Forlei’s squire felt a lifetime ago. How many years had it been since Forlei enlisted to fight the Burning Season? How many seasons had passed since Donal watched Forlei fall atop the walls of Castle Andrak?

  Time no longer seemed to have meaning. Donal abandoned the past, while devoting all he had to becoming one of the war priests. He spent hours each day practicing with sword and staff, bow and dagger. Additional hours were devoted to studying the art of war and the philosophers from ages long past. The last moments of daylight were spent in devotion to the Purifying Flame; that beacon of liberty and human individuality keeping the world safe. Each knight was expected to be the very best humanity offered, well versed in literature and weapons. Donal took pride in his studies.

  “Are you ill, Donal?” Quinlan asked.

  The fatherly tone seldom left his voice, for he knew no other way to be with the squire. Donal was his first charge and he still was not quite comfortable with the responsibility. War priests were solitary by nature. Their personalities best suited for handling issues without additional support. Not that having a squire was personally displeasing. Donal was a good young man, worthy of being a squire to a war priest. Quinlan decided the problem resided within him.

  Donal felt warmth in the air as the mists were pushed back by Quinlan’s raw power. “No, Brother Quinlan. I suffered a moment of weakness. It will not happen again.”

  “Weakness is to be embraced, if one is expected to overcome it,” Quinlan said. “Do not be ashamed of such feelings. One might argue they give cause to our actions, strengthening us for the horrors we must confront.”

  “How are we to defeat darkness when it surrounds everything?” Donal asked. Anything to take his mind off the myriad nightmares potentially lurking in the mists. Everywhere he looked off the road, he saw vague outlines, shapes of monsters trying to break into the real world. He knew fear.

  Quinlan nodded approval at the question. “Darkness is perpetual, as is the light. One cannot be defeated without obliterating the other. Instead, we must strive to find balance, for only through balance can there exist peace. It is not the defeat of darkness we seek, Donal. It is the balance of power.”

  The mists thinned. They had come to the beginning of the peninsula.

  The fire crackled, crisp against the easy chill of night. Quinlan had forgotten how much comfort he found in such a trivial noise. Hands behind his head, Quinlan leaned back against a fallen tree and for a moment relaxed. Danger here was minimal, though there were threats hiding in the forgotten places of the world. Threats more than willing to assault one of the war priests.

  Trophy hunters and villains crawled through the duchies in search of the ultimate prize. Hunters of men for the right price, Quinlan thought disgustedly. He’d planned the best, fastest route down to Fent. They’d follow the road west for a day before entering the Scour, a wild forest both dense and mystical. Quinlan had never had a negative experience within the forest, despite the rumors circulated among new recruits and knights.

  After leaving the Scour, Quinlan intended on taking the road south to the Indolense Permital. The chasm was a league wide and a third that deep. Several small villages were within, concealed in the forests and rock formations. Fent was a few days ride south from ther
e. He hoped for an easy journey without incident. Hope and reality seldom crossed paths.

  Donal returned with a final armload of firewood. He was tired and sore from spending the day in the saddle, an act living almost exclusively in the castle made unnecessary. But he also felt joy. He’d almost forgotten what life away from the mist shrouded castle was like. So many shades of green and brown stole his mind away from the alabaster and grey he’d grown accustomed to.

  “Where are you from?” Quinlan asked. His eyes remained closed.

  Donal swallowed his mouthful of water and recapped the canteen. “Far to the west, outside of Beacon.”

  “You live near the Hell Drop?”

  “South of it. We are a small logging community. My father’s business sells quality wood crafts to many of the dukes and barons across the land.” Pride edged his words.

  Quinlan nodded. “You miss it.”

  A pause long enough to tell Quinlan what he sought.

  “At times, though those grow more infrequent the closer I get to becoming a war priest.”

  “Leaving home is no easy task,” Quinlan agreed. “It takes strength to walk away from all we know in order to find enlightenment. Sorely, far too many fall short of that goal.”

  “Where are you from, Brother Quinlan?” Donal asked.

  Soft snores answered him. Donal fought off disappointment and shook his head, a small smile on his face. Life on the road was hard for them all, fully ordained war priests as well. Donal snatched a blanket from his saddlebag and covered Quinlan. The night was still young, leaving Donal ample time to reflect on those precious, private moments from childhood that helped guide the course of his life. He drifted off to sleep with images of that last family supper before Sir Forlei took him away. Some events time could not diminish.

  SEVEN

  Fent

  “We are not doing enough to protect our people!” Lizette raged, pounding her small fists on the tabletop amidst stains of ale and food from meals long past.