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

by Christian Warren Freed

  “Look!” Donal refrained from shouting.

  Dalem scurried back up the bank, where he brushed clumps of mud and dead grass from his body. He accepted the water skin and after drinking deeply, broke into a feral grin. “We have found the passage between realms.”

  Quinlan wanted to clap. At last! They had a starting place.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Gunn

  “Absolutely not!”

  Einos, having appropriated his father in law’s study, sank down into the high backed chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t believe what he’d just been asked. As if enough life wasn’t already at risk! His respect for the war priests, combined with a healthy dose of suspicion many in the lands shared, failed to translate into a willingness to allow Quinlan to have his way unchecked.

  “There is no other way,” Quinlan offered.

  Einos winced. “Do you have any idea what you are asking?”

  “We do.”

  Dalem stood at his left, the sclarem failing to come up to his shoulders. Donal stood a pace behind, befitting his station and lack of experience. The trio had returned to Einos with renewed enthusiasm, knowing the end of their hunt was near. Finding hesitance bordering on denial left them stunned.

  “There is no other way,” Dalem added. His voice cracked at awkward syllables.

  Shaking his head, Einos finally opened his eyes. “You expect me to believe that? When has anyone successfully returned from the Other Realm?”

  They remained silent, allowing Einos to work through the issue on his own. Some questions didn’t need to be asked, nor were there appropriate answers for many more. Their proposal was simplistic, yet laden with inherent dangers. The Other Realm was an enigma. No amount of lore collected across the duchies offered enough insight for Quinlan to make an accurate decision. By offering to traverse the boundaries, Quinlan was resigning his life.

  “This is an unexpected opportunity we cannot afford to pass up,” Quinlan insisted. His eyes burned from the lack of sleep.

  Einos threw out his arms. “We could not stop Brogon Lord in this duchy, what makes you think you can do so in his realm?”

  Boots shuffling down the hall stopped before carrying on, forcing Einos to lower his voice. Recent circumstances in the capital left him rattled. Trust had become a rare commodity and he wasn’t willing to return to old habits, at least not until this situation was resolved.

  Quinlan slid into the chair beside Einos, pausing to cast his glance at the others in the room. Only Thep remained unreadable. “Einos, we may not have another opportunity. All signs point to a culminating moment approaching. I fear should we not act now, decisively, we will lose. There is more at stake than the future of Fent.”

  Einos closed his mouth, abruptly changing what he was going to say. “What do you mean?”

  “There are powers gathering. A storm approaches, threatening us all,” Dalem answered.

  Quinlan deferred, allowing the elder sclarem’s wisdom to shine. Emboldened, Dalem continued, “The powers of good and evil have been in opposition for countless millennia. An epoch of humanity is nothing to the great game being played. Should our enemies break through here, in Fent, they will gain a toehold in this realm. Pushing them back will be next to impossible, especially with all but one of the war priest fortresses destroyed. What we do next might well effect the fates of everyone in this world.”

  “Those aren’t encouraging words,” Einos groaned. “You leave me with no choices.”

  “An unenviable position for any ruler, but one we all must accept,” Quinlan said with a grim nod.

  Silence fell. A curtain of impenetrable discomfort. Einos closed his eyes and prayed for guidance. So many choices had proven wrong, he was unwilling to risk more. Too many lives had already been lost without results. Could he resign more to death with the utterance of a single sentence?

  There was nothing in his authority preventing Quinlan or Dalem from enacting their plan. Neither were his citizens, nor could he blame them for wanting to try. The chance to kill the once dead man and end the Omegri’s interference in Fent was alluring. The Council of Dukes might demand an inquiry should word of his decision to waste the life of a war priest come to light, but that was a rare occurrence and not an immediate issue. Knowing the Lord General would come down with his full authority was another matter.

  “Can you succeed?” Einos asked after some time passed. Despite his lack of optimism, the Baron of Fent saw a sliver of opportunity. He’d live with the consequences.

  “I do not know,” Dalem answered before the others could.

  “If that is the best we can do,” Einos added. “I will not say that I like this plan. It is foolish and offers no balance of reward, but I cannot see another way ahead. What do you need from me?”

  Nils burst into the room, which was supposed to be private, out of breath and red faced. Heads turned his way, daring him to interrupt further.

  “This had better be damned important, soldier,” Thep growled.

  “Sir, Sergeant Sava sent me. There’s a large body of armed men heading this way,” Nils reported.

  Einos’ fist made a fleshy thump as he smacked the desk. “Damnation. How many?”

  “Forty to fifty. The scouts weren’t sure,” Nils said.

  “It appears our position grows dire,” Einos told them. He struggled to comprehend what was happening, though there could be but one viable reason. His enemies aimed to remove him and take control of Fent. “Brother Quinlan, Dalem, you have my full endorsement. Do what you feel is necessary. Our hands will be full here for the immediate future. Good fortune to you both.”

  They clasped forearms. Each man stared deep into the other’s eyes, searching for signs of reassurance. Of hope. There was precious little of either. It would have to be enough.

  Einos turned to his captain as the war priest and sclarem left. “Captain, we must make Gunn defensible. Can your people handle so many?”

  “That or we shall all die trying, Baron,” Thep sounded confident, giving Einos hope. “Your permission?”

  Einos nodded. “Go. The time has come to make these bastards pay for their indiscretion.”

  “I’ve never been in a real battle,” Alfar admitted under cover of darkness.

  It was a common superstition among soldiers. No one wanted to admit to being raw, not when lives to their left and right depended on them. His voice was low so as not to alarm those nearby, though he would have been surprised to learn a great many of them felt the same. Fent was a quiet duchy out of the main trade lanes. There weren’t many who remembered the last time an army took to the field.

  Sava sat on a tree stump nearby, concealed in the night as he sharpened his sword. He tried to think back to his first battle. All the fear, adrenalin, and anxiety as he slashed into his first opponent. Years had gone by, fled like so many empty seasons. He was older now. Grey of hair and long in the tooth. A veteran. A wall. The anchor his soldiers needed.

  “Quiet, fool. You don’t want everyone to know,” Nils replied. He’d returned as the sun set and took his place in the defensive line.

  Taken back, Alfar snuffed his nose. “I’m just scared, is all.”

  “Me, too,” Nils admitted and fell silent.

  Sava perked up, interested in their exchange. He’d come to almost enjoy their banter, for it reminded him of his younger days when the world wasn’t quite so small. Those had been the days, he mused. Riding and marching across the face of the world in the name of honor and a healthy purse. This was different.

  He wasn’t fighting for anyone but the men and women around him. Einos and the others in Gunn were fine, but they didn’t matter when steel started swinging. There was a time and place for royalty and this wasn’t it. Sava expected Nils to snap a quick retort. The man was young, compared to Sava, but had talent and was doing a fine job of molding Alfar into a proper soldier. If only the others in his company did the same, they might just survive the coming fight.

&
nbsp; Setting the stone to blade, he continued. There was no such thing as having too sharp of a sword on the eve of battle.

  “You all should get some sleep. You’re going to need it come morning,” he said loud enough that those up and down the line could hear. Every other person hit the sack. Sleep in shifts. I don’t want any surprises tonight.”

  “What about you, Sergeant?” Alfar whispered.

  Sounds of soldiers burrowing down to find a few hours of restless sleep echoed up and down the line. Sava knew from experience, no one would sleep well. “Me? I have work to do.”

  Alone at last, the Baron of Fent clasped his hands behind his back and stared out the window facing his faraway castle and the woman he loved. Thoughts of failure prevented him from relaxing. How he’d failed Aneth and their unborn child. Failed his people. Failed so many parents. Failed Lizette. The list felt endless. He began to wonder if he was meant to rule after all, or if he was to be the last baron of his bloodline.

  The word made him cringe. So much rested on where a man came from and he was only now coming to understand that. Einos would trade all of this for the opportunity to escape with Aneth and live a quiet life. But what legacy would that produce? The leader who abandoned his people in their hour of greatest need. He’d be hunted to the ends of the world for such a crime. An outlaw with an entire duchy seeking his blood.

  In the end, there was no choice. He would meet the coming force and do his best to emerge victorious. Death held no fear for him. Einos pushed self-centered thoughts aside, knowing they would only serve to crimp his will when bodies started to fall. The time had come to think forward, abandoning the mire that had slowed his movements for so long. The approaching enemy presented new, unanticipated challenges.

  “Kastus must have dug too deep,” he mused to his reflection.

  Einos moved to turn away but his reflection caught his attention. Aged. Weathered. He looked, and felt, much older than his years. There’d been a time when ruling Fent was joyous, ripe with challenges and adventures. Studying the lines edging his eyes closer, he feared those moments lost to darkening memories. Young compared to many of his peers, Einos had grown sluggish and weak with the threat of the once dead man.

  Compounding his misery was the imminent arrival of Merchant Giles’s mercenary force. No doubt they’d come for his head, thinking him sorely protected. He snorted. What surprise lay in wait for them. Leadership taught him one valuable lesson, if nothing else, never underestimate your opponent. Those men barreling toward Gunn were in for a shock once the sun rose.

  Einos knew Kastus would never let him live it down if he got hurt. Fighting was a young man’s trade, not the ruler of a duchy. Sword sitting on the end of his bed, carefully sheathed just as it had been for too many years, Einos turned from the failings of his reflection. There’d come a time for lament later. For now, the rule of a land was at stake. And more.

  He still couldn’t come to terms with what Quinlan and the sclarem suggested. The Other Realm! What madness! How anyone could survive the horrors trapped beyond the veil was beyond his ability to comprehend. Why they decided upon this course of action made little sense, despite his acceptance. At this point, he was willing to do whatever it took to defeat Brogon Lord and bring the missing children home.

  That battle was out of his control, however. Einos bent his focus on the approaching mercenaries. Come the morning, there would be bloodshed and mayhem. More than enough for any leader. The night, he decided, was not long enough.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Castle Fent

  “It’s not much to look at,” Jayon said with slumped shoulders. His body ached from his neck to his ankles. Endless days trapped on horseback didn’t suit him.

  Arella scratched a bug bite on her jaw. She agreed. “They seldom are. It is important to remember that aesthetics don’t make a duchy. These people are plagued by a nightmare, if Brother Quinlan’s report is accurate. We must not frown upon their way of life.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  Rebuked, he fell silent and rode beside her. The main village of Fent was dominated by Einos’s family castle. An ugly building of grey stone rising up into the sky. Countless rows of thatch roofed houses stretched away like fingers, marred only by multi-level structures of wood and stone. Fent was unremarkable. Arella had grown up in a similar village. The idea of returning left an ill taste in her mouth.

  They reached the outskirts of Fent and were halted by a half squad of armored soldiers. Her instincts were correct. Much had gone wrong in this duchy for soldiers to patrol their own streets. Arella unlaced her riding cloak, allowing the proud emblem of her Order to show. Quinlan’s influence was known, for the soldiers showed little reaction.

  “Go and get the sergeant,” the head guard ordered before addressing her. “Ma’am, mind if I ask what business you have here? We weren’t informed any additional aid was coming from Andrak.”

  “Brother Quinlan requested my presence. I am here to assist with the F’talle,” Arella announced. Guards shuffled, unnerved by the mention.

  Swallowing his discomfort, the guard gestured for the barricade to be moved. “Constable Kastus will be pleased to see you. He’s up at the castle.”

  “Where is Brother Quinlan?” she asked. Arella was under the impression he would be there to greet her.

  “Gone off with the Baron. They should be coming back in a few days.”

  A stern looking woman with as much beauty as brawn stormed toward them. Arella was taken aback by the haunting ice colored eyes.

  “I am Sergeant Sanice. If it pleases you, I will take you to the Constable.”

  Left with little alternative, Arella slid from the saddle and gestured for Sanice to lead on. Empty streets greeted her. Arella supposed martial law was in place, a fact confirmed by the wary glint in Sanice’s eye.

  “What happened here?” Arella asked. A shutter moved, rattling against the cold stone of the second story window.

  Sanice stiffened, composing her thoughts. “They say the Grey Wanderer started it. He came around weeks ago, bringing the dead with him. We’ve been hunting that bastard since but have failed each time. The Baron is off to find the truth of this Brogon Lord. Folks are scared enough, what with the missing children, but now we have a battle on our hands.”

  Arella ignored the way Sanice glossed over the missing children comment. Of course, this had all been in Quinlan’s message. The sole purpose for her arrival was to assist with defeating the F’talle. With Quinlan gone, she failed to understand what battle the people of Fent were expecting. Surely not against the Grey Wanderer. To do so would be death on widespread levels.

  “Who are you fighting?” she asked.

  Sanice kept walking. They were past the houses and crossing the open training grounds separating the two sides of the village. “Some of the merchants are engaged in a conspiracy to usurp the crown. Baron Einos has entrusted the task of clearing them out to Constable Kastus, and the army. You will be more than appreciated in this endeavor.”

  She and Jayon exchanged wary looks. They hadn’t come to fight a civil action. War priest mandate said they were to disengage from political infighting. Violating the Order’s laws was punishable by banishment. She needed to walk carefully, and for good reason. Generations ago, the war priests were embroiled in a civil dispute to the north. The damage done left the Order weakened and distrusted by much of the population. Those with power were often frowned upon, for it was only natural to assume the desire to gather more power was inescapable.

  “The war priests do not fight internal battles. We must not be seen to take sides,” she said.

  If Sanice was bothered by that, she didn’t show it. They crossed the street and found Kastus waiting outside with a trio of soldiers. “Constable, this is Sister Arella, from Andrak.”

  Kastus glanced up, arms folded. He studied the priest, wondering if she was what they needed. “Sister. I was unaware that Quinlan summoned additional help. You are most welcom
e, regardless. Thank you, Sergeant. If you will gather your squads. I want this done before nightfall.”

  Sanice saluted and stormed off, giving Arella the distinct impression she was far more dangerous than she let on.

  “What is happening here, Constable? I came to fight the F’talle, not an insurrection,” Arella said after following Kastus inside.

  Empty weapons racks lined the far wall. A table stacked with charts and reports dominated the center of the single room. Faint autumn light poured in through a pair of windows, accented by three oil lamps. Kastus dropped into a rickety chair and offered the other to her. Jayon went back outside to tend to their horses, leaving the pair to discuss matters.

  “Where do I begin?” he said with a rueful look. “I assume Quinlan explained our once dead man problem.”

  “He did,” she confirmed. “What he did not tell us was the potential for usurpation. I need a valid reason to get involved. Otherwise, I return to Castle Andrak.”

  Kastus frowned, though he’d expected such resistance. Quinlan was obstinate at best, giving him no other expectation for other war priests. “It is my belief, as well as that of the Baron’s, that this plot is related to the once dead man.”

  He went on to explain his findings in Palis and the subsequent hunt for Elder Waern. Kastus laid out a plan leading him to the merchants. Giles in particular. “Tender Cannandal’s death was too convenient to be coincident.”

  “You suspect this merchant is in league with the F’talle?” she guessed.

  “I do.”

  His confidence inspired her. Arella shifted, the aged wood uncomfortable. “If what you say is true, that would mean the Omegri have found agents in Fent and are using your duchy to exploit a weakness in the veil.”

  “Does this mean you will help?” Kastus asked, hopeful he’d said enough to convince her. Having companies of the army at hand was more than enough to suit his needs, but a war priest would end Giles’s fight with little bloodshed. Enough citizens had already paid the full price. He didn’t want more on his conscience.