Tugging off her riding gloves, Arella extended her hand. “Yes, Constable, I believe your plight is in the best interests of the land. When do we begin?”
Unable to conceal his childish grin, Kastus rose and showed her one of the more detailed charts. “All signs point to Merchant Giles as the epicenter of this mess. We believe he is responsible for turning Waern and the other Elders from Palis, using the pretense of extra payment for services. I doubt any of the three understood the full implications against them.”
“The Other Realm constantly seeks ways into our world. That Fent should fall victim is not significant,” Arella said.
“Giles is in league with the Omegri, which leads me back to the once dead man and the missing children,” Kastus continued. “If we stop Giles, we cut off the Other Realm’s hold on this land and end all of our problems.”
“You are positive he is the one?” she asked.
At this, Kastus paused. “Actually, no. There are a handful of large merchants in Fent. Any of them could be guilty. If I were a gambler, I would place my coin on Giles. He is the most powerful and influential merchant in the surrounding duchies. Even if he isn’t the one, his capture will be the spark needed.”
That was enough for her. Arella rose and donned her fighting gloves. “When do we begin?”
Kastus blinked twice. “Now.”
The armored column marched down the empty street. Swords were bare. Spears sharp. Kastus and Arella walked at their front. One resplendent in Fent’s colors. The other authoritative in the pale blue of the war priests. Where she strode, fear spread. Unopposed, the company speared toward Giles’s main warehouse complex. They were given explicit instructions. Giles was to remain unharmed. Everyone else foolish enough to get in their way was expendable.
Waern watched them come, fear building in his old heart. Death was all he saw. “Damn you, Giles! You told me I was safe.”
Head down, hair dangling over a cup of liquor, Giles snorted his reply. He’d had enough of Waern’s endless whining, regretting the decision to bring him in. Giles threw back another drink. Flashes of Cannandal, murdered by his deeds, taunted him. Right now, he regretted everything. If only he had been strong enough to fend off the Omegri, none of this would be happening. If only.
“Shut your face, old man,” he growled. “I’ve enough troubles without you getting underfoot.”
Waern, nonplussed, wheeled on his benefactor with a crooked finger. “Get us out of this mess! We can’t fight the entire army.”
“Who said I was dumb enough to try?”
“What?” Waern asked, his eyes crossing briefly.
“Think. Kastus has hundreds of soldiers in the village right now,” Giles explained. “What good would it do me to send my guards out?”
“What are you going to do?” Waern asked.
Giles drained his cup and cast a feral grin. “Offer them a sacrifice.”
The elder paled as realization dawned. His hands, cramped and liver spotted, trembled. “You can’t! This was all your doing. I would not be here if not for you.”
“I can and I will. You are nothing. It would serve you well to remember that.”
Darkness flashed and in that moment Giles became dangerous. Days of faceless whispers twisted his mind. Pushed to the breaking point, Giles felt stretched. Thin. Pain had become a constant reminder of his weakness. He’d given in to fell powers and now suffered without end. Each day the noose drew tighter. Kastus was coming to pinch him. Of that, there was no doubt. The end of his nightmare fast approaching. He was almost relieved.
Waern forced him to think otherwise. The man had become a liability. No doubt he would sell Giles out to save his own neck. Giles wanted to laugh. If the old man thought he was going to sell him out, he was about to discover differently. Giles had built a small empire across the southern duchies, amassing wealth and power a small village elder couldn’t dream of. People of authority owed him many favors, Einos included. Mind settled, there was naught to do but act.
“Lads,” he growled. “Grab our esteemed elder. He’s got a destiny to fulfill.”
Waern struggled as rough hands clamped onto his arms. They squeezed and bruised. “Stop this at once, Giles. This is madness! We are partners.”
Giles crossed the room in the blink of an eye, dagger pointing at Waern’s heart. His hand trembled as the rage threatened to take over. “We were never partners. Understand that. This is my world. My time. After today, no one will remember your name. Get him out of here. Our esteemed Constable will enjoy his gift.”
“You can’t do this! I am a …”
“You are a nobody. Your time is over, old man. Gag him if you have but do not harm him. I want him to enjoy every delicious moment of suffering he has coming,” Giles ordered.
FORTY
The Other Realm
Pain, but not. An odd crawling sensation danced across his flesh, irritating him with a flash of fire that quickly cooled. Quinlan emerged from the haze and slumped to his knees. Strength had left him. He felt sluggish, unable to respond. The weight of his bones threatened to drag him down into the ash and leave him. A forgotten reminder of what should not be done. Dust poured from his mouth when he tried to speak. The urge to collapse, to succumb, strengthened.
A steadying hand on his shoulder helped shrug off the effects of the transition. Quinlan wiped the grey crud from the corners of his eyes and looked at the long, green fingers on his shoulder. Creased with countless lines, each ended in a gnarled nail, broken and covered in grime. Whatever else, Dalem had lived a long, hard life.
“Donal?” Quinlan asked as his wits recovered.
“Here,” came Donal’s reply from behind.
Quinlan found his novice doubled over, hands on his knees. A pool of liquid was absorbing into the ash and dirt. The sclarem crossed the distance and performed the same on Donal. Soon, both war priests were able to stand without their vision swimming. Strength returned. It was then Quinlan looked at the desolate surroundings. A colorless world of gentle slopes and vast plains stretched out in every direction. There was no sun, only a haunting glow in shades of grey.
“How can life be sustained in such a place?” he asked.
Dalem used his staff to support his weight as he hobbled over. “This realm is ancient, older than our own. Legend says it was not always so. Perhaps it was once as verdant as ours. I do not know.”
“The Omegri did this?” Quinlan asked. “How?”
“Much is unknown about their origin, though they are the harbingers of doom. An evil as old and ancient as the Purifying Flame,” Dalem explained. “One cannot exist without the other. Nor should one be more powerful than the other. They must strike a balance if any of the realms are to find harmony.”
Donal wiped the bile from his lips. “Will they do this to our realm?”
“Assuredly.”
The single word answer chilled him. Donal struggled with the urge to return to Fent, to a world that made sense. A quick glance over his shoulder told him such was impossible. The way was shut. They were trapped with but one way forward.
“How long can we stay here before we become trapped?” Quinlan asked after catching Donal’s despair.
Dalem twisted his lower jaw. Elongated tusks rubbed against his lips. “Provided we can find the way home? Not long. We must find the F’talle and end this.”
“I hope you have an idea where to begin?” Quinlan stared at the expanse of nothingness, unable to comprehend what he saw.
Dalem answered by walking. His wide feet easily traversed the loose ash, kicking up small dust clouds with each step. Quinlan got the impression the sclarem was at ease here, almost as if he had been here before. Was there possibility for betrayal? The prospect frightened him, for he had already been found wanting against Lord.
He looked at the black of his clothing and armor, grateful for leaving his traditional priest armor behind. The less attention he drew, the better. Quinlan had spent years defending the world from th
e Omegri and here he was, trapped in their realm without any way home. The Order was hard pressed to fend them off in Castle Andrak. Fighting the Omegri in this realm wasn’t his first option.
How long they walked, he didn’t know. Time seemed to lack meaning. The Other Realm was an abyss, void of all life. It didn’t take much imagination to see why the Omegri wanted out. Wanted another realm to conquer. A war was coming. Quinlan forced those thoughts aside and bent his focus toward finding Brogon Lord, and Lizette.
The march continued.
Every time she glanced up brought the completion of the great clock tower nearer. Both hands were now fixed. Numbers were placed. Construction on the exterior was all but complete, leaving only the internal mechanism to start the clock. Time was almost up and she was no closer to stopping Brogon’s masters. Desperation crept into her thoughts. Lizette had failed to find a way to turn the once dead man and save the children. Once the clock was finished, so too, was her time in this realm.
The promise of a quick death awaited. She and all the children, whom she tried so hard to protect, were trapped for the rest of their days, however short they may be. For she could not find a way that any of them would be allowed to live. The masters, in all their wicked glory, were seductive and invective in their treatment. What their final goal was remained a mystery, though she began to suspect something far more nefarious than what they explained.
Lizette tore her gaze from the tower, knowing it held her doom. That desperation spurred her to move faster. She knew Brogon clung to a measure of humanity. That his fight against the masters wasn’t finished. Appealing to that hidden wellspring was another matter. Her efforts ended in failure, but she was determined to continue trying. Something had to work. Otherwise…
She found him along the rise to the east. It was a familiar place he returned to, as if it reminded him of warmer times. The gloom of the Other Realm permeated everything, robbing her of heat necessary to thrive. Lizette knew none of that mattered to the once dead man. He was a creature of death. An impossibility of nature. She needed to remind him of who he had been.
“You waste your time,” he said without looking at her.
Lizette forced a smile, tight lipped and fleeting. “I do not believe so. We are both trapped, Brogon.” He flinched at his name. “I know there is good in you. Buried perhaps, but enough to know that this is wrong.”
“Right or wrong. These words mean nothing here. You are all going to die here.”
“Not if you help us,” she replied in a pleading tone.
He turned. Parts of his cheekbone were visible through his face. “I do what the masters command. My life is forfeit.”
She reached out, touching his forearm. “You were a man once. You had a family. Honor. How much is it going to take to get you to remember?”
“You do not understand. I remember everything,” he said.
She recoiled, witnessing the abject depression in his eyes. How could I have been so wrong? This man’s pain isn’t from being resurrected. It’s that he isn’t allowed to forget! The realization left her stunned. Brogon Lord. The terror of Fent. His mind locked in a decomposing corpse, forced to perform reprehensible tasks in the name of evil. She knew what to do at last.
“The tower is almost complete. It is time to summon the Omegri. The conquest of the living world must begin.”
Dust flaked from her desiccated flesh, she stared up at the clock face and wondered if their scheme was going to work. The Omegri were unforgiving. “Have we enough souls to power the machine?”
The third added, “With the addition of the woman, yes. Many of the children perished during the labor. Her unexpected arrival should prove beneficial.”
“Good. The moment the tower is complete, I want all prisoners taken to the sacrificial chamber. The Omegri must return. The hour of their reign is upon us.”
Subtle winds blew a dusting of ash across their robes. Hammers continued pounding up and down the tower. Less than before, for the work was almost finished. She had accomplished her task. The future no longer held promise of suffering. She, along with her two companions, would be allowed to return to nothing. No more toil. No languishing between realms. Soon oblivion would claim them all.
“We are close. Do you smell that?” Dalem declared after the trio crested a small rise.
They’d marched until they were sore. Blisters formed in their boots. Ash coated them. The Other Realm was one of desolation. Quinlan felt weaker, as if his connection with the Purifying Flame was strained, diluted.
“Coming here was wrong,” he told Donal. “We do not have our full power.”
“Inconsequential. There is power here. Latent. Waiting for the right ones to use it. The Omegri are powerful but lack control. Given to indulgences and whim.” Dalem interrupted.
“You are certain you can access this power?” Quinlan asked.
The sclarem chuckled and kept walking. Quinlan was left with mixed emotions. This was not the time for withholding. Not in the face of their greatest enemy. He toyed with the idea of stopping Dalem and demanding answers. Doing so would not prove conducive to their quest. Instead, Quinlan turned his focus toward finding Lizette and killing the F’talle. All else was secondary.
Slowly, a shape emerged from the grey mist. A tower. Glowing at the top with strained light, as if sickened. Quinlan resisted the urge to take up his sword. They were still too far away, though his instincts screamed that this was the epicenter of their destination. Mind racing through possibilities, the war priest pressed on.
“What is that?” Donal whispered. Since entering the Other Realm, he’d grown convinced they were being watched, followed.
Dalem remained quiet, for he too lacked knowledge. At least until they were close enough to witness the monstrosity rising over a hundred feet. The lines were twisted, uneven. Walkways and scaffoldings dominated the lower reaches. Numerous torches could be seen, their light haunting in the quasi-light.
“A clock,” Quinlan said in shock. “Dalem, have you any idea what it is for?”
“Perhaps,” was all the sclarem said.
He crouched, setting his weight on the balls of his feet. Orange flecked eyes took in the sight before them. His neck muscles bulged as he began to understand what he was seeing.
Quinlan crouched beside him, poorly concealed behind a pair of dead bushes. “You know something.”
The sclarem was slow to answer. “There is a legend. A tale. The Omegri constantly seek ways into our world but can only do so for one hundred days each year. What then do they do in the remainder? An old dream suggested that if they could stop time, they would be able to conduct a relentless assault on us.”
“That would be the end of the world,” Donal uttered. His eyes widened as the clock face shifted into view.
Quinlan ignored the dread building in his stomach. “We must hurry.”
Donal stared at the monstrosity looming over them. Squinting, he could barely make out tiny figures climbing up and down. The children! Any shock he might have felt was nulled by the sensory overload they’d experienced since arriving. It wasn’t until he tracked two adult figures atop the edge of a small rise that his excitement overtook him and he grabbed Quinlan’s arm.
“Brother Quinlan, look! To the left of the tower,” he exclaimed.
“Lizette,” Quinlan said, following the pointing finger. She appeared unharmed, and she was with the F’talle. “Dalem, can we get down there unseen?”
“Perhaps. I believe there is nothing but to try,” the sclarem said with a nod.
The trio crossed the final stretch of the Other Realm separating them from completing their mission. Each was filled with doubts and fears. Private matters that couldn’t be shared lest they be strengthened beyond imagination. Bad things lurked in unseen places. Quinlan summoned his training to maintain control. The hope of defeating the F’talle and stopping the Omegri rested on his shoulders. His following actions. Countless lives in the balance and they knew it not. St
rained under the pressure, Quinlan kept moving.
All they had to do was reach Lizette.
FORTY-ONE
The Other Realm
“The tower is finished. We can charge the machine now.”
The words tugged at what little humanity Brogon Lord clung to. He regarded the three shadowy figures with disdain, for they were the antithesis of all he once stood for, or so Lizette had convinced him. The masters, he concluded, were wicked beings best forgotten by creation.
Their leader beckoned him with crooked finger. “Go. Bring me the children. The time has come.”
“What of the woman?” he asked.
The master grinned, wicked and cunning. “Kill her and bring the corpse to me. I wish to wear her as a trophy. Now go.”
Brogon obeyed, for he had no choice. The children. He was already responsible for their abductions, now he would be their executioner. How low he had fallen. The shame heaped upon his name would last generations. The F’talle stomped off. Each step leaden, almost reluctant.
“Go with him. There can be no error in this,” he heard from behind.
So, it was to be a watchdog. Brogon ignored the wisp of rustled clothing as the second monster caught up with him. His every action would be monitored, for his masters bore little trust. This, he decided, complicated matters.
“Quiet, children. This will all pass soon enough.”
The words, spoken with sincerity, felt hollow even as she said them. Lizette took in the small, round faces covered in grime and fear and felt her heart melt. Any of them could have been her Tabith. But no. Her daughter was gone. The children amassed before her served as painful reminders of the fact. All looked to her for salvation. A forlorn dream of better times. She wished she could have done more, but that was not hers to decide.
The Children of Never: A War Priests of Andrak Saga (The War Priests of Andrak Saga Book 1) Page 26
