Lizette looked to Quinlan, silently begging him to intervene. To tell the children she was truthful. The war priest remained stoic. Taciturn. He’d barely spoken since finding her. Nor had Donal or the sclarem. Once a plan was developed, the three scurried into hidden corners to await the proper time. She still wasn’t clear on what they intended, or how they planned on making it happen. Only that they were reluctantly confident of success. It was more than she’d had since arriving here.
“Will this work?” she knew better than to ask. Quinlan had never been free with information. The war priest kept his own counsel while serving the Baron. Expecting him to do otherwise now was foolish at best. “Quinlan, answer me. Please.”
Sword bare, the war priest cocked his head and blew out the breath he’d been holding. “I do not know, but we must try.”
“There is no other way,” Dalem added. “Can we trust this F’talle? He has tried to kill each of us, in his own right. I should not like to find betrayal in the Other Realm.”
She shrugged. “What else is there in this wretched place? No one living should ever come here. We must be away, and soon, for I fear the masters are ready to enact their plan.”
Approaching footsteps drew their attention. Quinlan placed a gloved finger to his lips and gestured for silence. It was time. The door to the massive hall opened with a groan. Haunting light flooded in, abolishing the darkness. Tiny faces blinked and covered their eyes as a desiccated figure filled the opening. Shadows swirled on his right.
“Come children. The masters have need of you,” Brogon Lord announced. “We must all go into the tower.”
No one moved. He turned to Lizette, imploring her to help. She swallowed her rising fear. “Do as he says. It will be all right.”
Dissatisfied with the pace, the master puffed out his robes, increasing to twice his normal size. “Now! Move before it is too late! All of you. The last one to the tower with die a miserable death.”
Brogon stood aside as Lizette led the children out. The master, ignorant of all else, watched with greed. The desire to kill strengthened. Perhaps a child or two would not be missed. He swept across the floor, inching closer to the shadows. A mistake. Brogon slammed the door shut behind the last child just as Quinlan and the others emerged from hiding.
“The time for reckoning has arrived,” Dalem announced.
The master recoiled, for it had been long since he last laid eyes on his ancient nemesis. “Your kind is extinct!”
Dalem responded with a bolt of bright orange energy from his staff. The robed figure cringed, rocking back as he was engulfed. Flames swept upward, spreading across the ceiling as the sclarem’s full fury was diverted away. A scream erupted from the burning figure and the flames were extinguished. Weakened by the unexpected assault, he dropped to a knee. Shadows swirled around him, drawing across his flesh in preparation of attack.
Quinlan and Donal burst into action. The war priest crossed the space of the floor in three steps and brought his blade down on the back of the robed figure’s neck. Steel bit deep, sweeping through bone and fabric. Droplets of black ichor splashed across the ash strewn floorboards. The withered head followed, bouncing to a stop at Donal’s feet. The novice scowled with disgust and kicked the head away. Puffs of ash and dust kicked up with each roll.
Head cocked, Dalem bent down to retrieve the head.
“What was that thing?” Quinlan asked.
“A monster,” Brogon Lord answered.
Quinlan spun, sword steady before him. Though an accord had been reached, solely at Lizette’s behest after she pleaded her cause, the war priest remained cautious toward the F’talle. Nothing was as it appeared in the Other Realm and he wasn’t willing to risk having his throat slit from behind.
Dalem placed both palms on the top of his staff and rested his elongated jaw on them. “The F’talle speaks true. This was a demon of the old world. Once, long ago, our two races fought a war of genocide. Those few who remained were banished here, while my kind was destined to roam the world as nomads. How many more are there?”
Brogon met the sclarem’s glare with determination. He knew they were destined to battle one another when this ended and if Dalem was true to his word, Brogon would at last find solace. It was a dream. “Two. This was the weakest, I believe.”
“The others will not be taken unawares,” Quinlan surmised. “And they will come looking for this one when he doesn’t show up.”
“Our moment of opportunity shrinks,” Dalem agreed.
Knowing what must be done, Quinlan walked up to Donal and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Donal, it is time. You must escort Lizette and children home while we finish the task.”
Donal bowed, though he was reluctant to leave his master’s side. The argument was hard fought and he lost. The world of life was more important than either of their lives. “I will do what I can, Brother.”
Protecting the children shouldn’t prove an issue, though finding a way back to their realm was another matter. Brogon promised them a way home, for the F’talle was versed in the secrets of passage. Despite that, trust was limited. Neither man was willing to place their lives in his hands, lest he betray them. Neither man had a choice. Even should they destroy the three creatures in control, there was no other way to return home. Brogon Lord had become indispensable.
“See that no harm befalls him,” Quinlan demanded of Brogon.
“I will do so,” the once dead man confirmed.
Quinlan’s stomach rebelled at the sight of Brogon’s missing eye. It was an unnatural thing, this living dead man. “Do so and your reward shall be delivered.”
Brogon followed Donal out the same door Lizette used. They found her and the children waiting under the cover of a ramshackle building about to collapse. Quinlan watched through the cracked door until the last of them were out of sight. He’d done all he could. Their paths split, Quinlan turned his attention to his own task.
“Do you have the power to defeat both of them?” he asked.
Dalem blinked several times, as if contemplating his answer. That alone was uninspiring. “Perhaps, though I will need your assistance, war priest.”
“I cannot feel the connection with the Flame,” Quinlan admitted. It was as he feared. Since arriving in the Other Realm, he was cutoff from the strength of the Purifying Flame, forced to rely on his wits and skills with a sword. Fortunately, Master Sergeant Cron was one of the premier sword masters in the world.
“It is there. Buried. Hidden in the face of this nightmare. Summon it when you need it most and the heart of the Flame will spring forth,” Dalem replied. “We have waited long enough. Let us find our hosts and make our presence known.”
Quinlan tightened his grip on his sword and slinked outside.
The area was quiet. No guards patrolled. No watchers ensured compliance with the labor force. It reminded Quinlan of those quiet moments when one begins to die. Serenity, if not for the abhorrent nature of the realm. He wasn’t sure what to expect, thus was not disappointed. The Omegri were an unseen presence, looming, yet just out of reach. He aimed to keep it that way, for there was no way he could hope to defeat them here.
Dalem appeared unconcerned. The sclarem moved with assurance and purpose, as if he had been born for this event. Whatever dark past Dalem endured was private. Quinlan didn’t bother asking. Each bore their guilt and pain. They crossed the rows of buildings used to house the children and came upon an open area leading up to the base of the clocktower. Quinlan still had no idea what purpose the tower served, only that it meant doom for untold millions.
Inside, he expected to find the other two creatures. It was too late to ask Dalem what they were and Brogon’s assignation of masters felt wrong on his tongue. Whatever they were, the war priest knew them as abominations. The F’talle’s warning of them stopping time and ending creation was dire and spurred Quinlan’s actions. He prayed to the Flame for strength and guidance. Only his grasp of undying devotion might sustain him against
the dark machinations of the Omegri.
“We cannot enter through the front. Surely they will expect an attack,” Quinlan whispered.
Dalem kept moving. His footsteps so soft, they produced no sound. “Surprise is yet ours. We must move faster if there is hope of catching them unawares. They will not ignore their missing companion for long.”
Quinlan remained unconvinced but failed to arrive at a different conclusion. They crossed the open ground in a matter of heartbeats. Still there was no sign of their enemy. Nerves played on his mind, tickling his innermost thoughts with dark temptations. Lifetimes were born and ended in the blink of an eye. Strength threatened to abandon him. Shaking his head, Quinlan forced one foot in front of the other until they crept along either side of the massive entryway.
Small skulls edged the opening, mouths agape with eternal torment. Quinlan saw rows of bones rising on either side. A macabre demonstration of the unholy. It sickened him. Chanting rose from the darkness. The ground vibrated as words of power laced the air.
“It has begun,” he hissed.
Dalem raised his staff, green light glowing with power, and slipped inside. The war priest cursed and followed. Whatever destiny awaited, Quinlan was going to find it in the bowels of the monstrous clocktower. Here, at the border between realms, all things began and ended. The tunnel slopped down at awkward angles. A haunting glow bathed the lower reaches, beckoning him. This was the place where he claimed his fate.
His breath came in ragged gasps. His muscles threatened to abandon him. Only the gentle slapping of his boots on wood accompanied the pounding in his head. Quinlan had known fear before, though never on levels this severe. His mind screamed to turn back. To escape the nightmares stewing in the deep. It took every measure of will to keep going. Quinlan caught up with the sclarem, who appeared oddly unaffected. Then he heard it.
“Bring the children. The slaughter must begin!”
Time was up.
FORTY-TWO
Gunn
“You figured right, Captain,” Sergeant Sava said, as he slumped down against the stone wall.
Two squads of house guards flanked them. Sava considered them briefly, for they’d come to be fair travel companions. Not to mention they bulked the meager ten soldier force up to nearly thrice its size. Nothing like strength in numbers. Being undermanned left a sour feeling in his stomach, but there was nothing for it. He was forced to make due with what he had. His one hope was that the castle boys lived up to their reputation. Otherwise it was going to be a short lived fight.
Thep glanced down at the five sword belts Sava dropped beside him. Wet blood spattered several. “How long?”
“Maybe an hour. Not much longer,” Sava said after inserting a pinch of kappa leaves in his cheek. “They’re coming right down the main road. I counted at least fifty. Well, forty-five.”
Satisfied, Thep said, “Get some rest, Sergeant. I’m going to need you.”
Sava spat. “I’ll be fine, sir. Besides, who else is going to make sure you don’t do anything foolish?”
“Let’s finish this,” Thep was emboldened. People like Sava were the guts on which the army thrived.
Time passed and the sun rose over the horizon. The chill of night was lifting, though not by much, as winter was edging closer. Thep yawned. His eyes were sore from lack of sleep. He felt old. A common theme among the others. Campaigns were brutal on both mind and body. Thep was amazed that people like Sava etched out a career in the army, for this was not the life he wanted to lead. It was all he could do to focus.
Sava ignored his commander’s influences. This was his world. A lifetime spent with sword in hand. There was little point in worrying over matters outside of his control. Satisfied that he’d done what he could, Sava moved down to his soldiers. The castle boys had their own chain of command, though they’d been augmented to Thep’s command.
The enemy arrived before he finished. Waves of horsemen charged into Gunn with impunity, neither expecting a defensive force, nor a pitched battle. They got both. Arrows struck their boiled leather armor. Some penetrated flesh, both horse and rider. Man and beast collapsed in screams. Dust kicked up, choking the air.
“Now, you bastards! Block the road before they figure out what’s happening,” Sava barked.
Nils and Alfar lit torches and threw them over the wall. Flames spread across the road as the shallow line filled with pitch caught fire. The inferno forced the bandits deeper into Gunn. As Sava planned. A quick look confirmed a second wall of fire was burning on the far end of the street. “Time for part two. Spears!”
The men and women under his command obeyed instantly. The castle boys were slower and over ten bandits escaped the trap. Growling his contempt, Sava snatched his own weapon from the ground and moved to the center of the line. The bandits slashed at the longer weapons, but the combination of confusion and fear rising from the horses left them at a disadvantage. The bandits were forced back, taking wounds when soldiers found opportunity.
A handful of bodies fell from their saddles. Some were old men, others boys. All had come with the promise of gold. Sava didn’t blame them, nor could he justify given them quarter. They’d come to kill the Baron. Treason. He aimed to put every last one in the ground. Anger blazing as hot as the fire, Sava broke ranks and charged into the bandits.
Three converged on him, encircling him as the greater mass of riders fell back. Sava stabbed with all his strength and was rewarded with his spear plunging deep into the first man’s exposed belly from the side. Blood and gore splashed as the spearpoint ripped free. A horse whinnied. Men shouted. Sava was blinded. A jerk on the spear told him the weapon was gone. He let go of the blood slickened shaft and drew his sword.
Sava swiped, cutting a gash across the nearest thigh. Steam drifted from the wound as hot blood spread. Engrossed in his actions, Sava failed to see the bandit behind him. The veteran growled in rage and pain, a throaty combination more feral than human, as the sword point drove through his shoulder armor and into his flesh.
“Sergeant Sava!”
The words, though shouted, came in a daze as his pain level intensified. Vision darkening, Sava let the force of impact propel him forward, oblivious to the pair of soldiers rushing the third bandit from both sides. A wild spear thrust took the bandit low in the throat, pitching him from the saddle. The sword blow to his unprotected heart killed him. Horses scattered and Sava was pulled back to safety.
Sword removed in the road, he slumped down behind the stone wall and in protest, allowed his men to treat his wound. “Damned fools! You could have been killed.”
Alfar grinned, as if being scolded by a brother. “We wasn’t going to let you die.”
Nils, a half step behind and panting, agreed. “He’s right. You’re the best of us, Sergeant.”
“Ahh!” Sava roared as Alfar pushed a wad of gauze into the entry wound. “Careful, you, or I’ll have you flogged. You don’t leave your men. Ever. Understand?”
Neither man bothered pointing out the obvious. Each took his tirade in stride, knowing that they’d saved the man responsible for molding them into the soldiers they were. Alfar finished dressing the wound, covering it in a wide bandage, and the two went back to the fight. Bandits, and one soldier, lay dead in the road. Horses roamed lost. The stench of blood and iron choked the air.
Sava popped his head up to survey the scene. The battle had moved on, between houses and heading for the far side of Gunn. Exactly where the Baron and those castle boys are. We might make it out of this after all. Sava’s gaze went to Nils and Alfar, proud to see them getting fresh weapons for the next part of the plan. They were among the best he had. A fact he would never admit aloud. Grunting from the effort of getting back on his feet, Sava refused to give in to the pain. There’d be time enough for that later.
“Let’s go, people! We’ve got a battle to win,” he growled and led them on the hunt.
Thep drew back and took aim. The bandit leader was twenty meters away an
d riding as hard as he could. Confirmation that Sava’s delaying action had worked. Castle guards crouched on either flank, each with short throwing spears. Thep prayed they stood in the line of fire, else his plan ended in failure and everyone died. Ten meters.
He inhaled a deep breath, exhaling slowly. His fingers slipped from the string. The arrow flew. Wood whistled. The bandit pitched back as the arrow took him in the lower chest. His armor protected him, to an extent, but the impact was enough to drive him to the ground. Unaware of what was happening, the others continued riding for the Baron’s location. They trampled the lead rider.
“Now,” Thep whistled.
As one, the castle guards of Fent rose, took aim, and let loose their spears. Horse and rider were slaughtered.
“Advance!” Thep roared above the din.
The guards leapt the wall and quickly formed ranks. Thep took his place in the center and they advanced on the enemy. His heart pounded. The sound like thunder in his ears. He’d never been in close combat this intense and thought of dying crept in. Knowing such was a death sentence for soldiers, Thep forced the thoughts aside and doubled the grip on his spear. They made contact moments later.
Blocked on either side by buildings, the bandits were unable to recover and spin around. Those at the front saw the approaching threat but couldn’t react in time, for those at the rear continued to push forward—unaware of what was happening. The result was violence on an unprecedented scale. Blood spilled in waves. Men died screaming. Arms were hacked off. Legs pierced through.
Thep stabbed for all he was worth. His steel bit deep on several bandits. Others fended him off, only to be caught by another. Chaos ruled the streets of Gunn. Chaos that worsened when Sava and his soldiers closed the exit. Faith renewed, Thep ordered his guards to continue the attack.
Baron Einos stood on the second story balcony of his in-law’s home. He was alone and watching the battle unfold. That he’d been prevented from participating, and for good reason, sat ill with him. Leaders were meant to be at the front of every action, not skulking far from danger while others fought and died in his name. It was a grave insult.
The Children of Never: A War Priests of Andrak Saga (The War Priests of Andrak Saga Book 1) Page 27
