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

by Christian Warren Freed

  The footsteps coming up the stairs behind him were distinct enough to prompt a cringe. Einos stiffened as the door opened and he was no longer alone.

  “You shouldn’t have brought this to our doorstep.”

  Einos was thankful his father in law was unable to see the wince he couldn’t conceal. “You say that as if I had a choice.”

  “All men have choices. Especially ones in charge of their own duchies,” Hintul snorted.

  “This is not the time,” Einos warned. “My people are dying. Good men and women whose only crime is their loyalty to the duchy. Do not begrudge them that.”

  “I’ve lived longer than you. Enough to know the truth of men. Greed is a powerful tool when weaponized,” his father in law replied. “Gunn doesn’t need this foolishness. You should leave as soon as you can.”

  “I rule this village, Hintul,” Einos reminded. His tone was gentle yet growing sterner as the conversation progressed.

  The sounds of battle dulled and faded altogether.

  Hintul rapped his knuckles on the banister. “Do you?”

  “Considering your involvement with the Lord family’s fall from power. If I were not married to your daughter, I’d have you all exiled,” Einos gave in to his anger. “Mind your tongue when you speak with me from here on. I am a forgiving man, but to an extent only.”

  The threat robbed most of the ferocity Hintul exhibited. “My daughter …”

  “Will know nothing of this. Leastwise not from me,” Einos assured. That his wife’s family played a role in the downfall of a rival family of power, forcing Brogon out into the life as a sell sword, sickened him. The thought that had they not gotten involved, for the unspoken promise of power, might have changed the fate of all Fent was almost too much to bear. Fortunately, he wasn’t given opportunity to stew over it.

  “Excuse me, I go to meet with my Captain,” Einos brushed past a stunned Hintul. There were more pressing matters at hand.

  He spied Loreli standing off by the kitchens, pretending not to notice or care. Einos knew better. She was one of the sharpest people he’d met. Family matters aside, the Baron of Fent strode outside where he received Thep’s salute and report.

  “It’s over, Baron,” the blood-stained soldier said. “The bandits have been routed. A handful escaped, but the majority are dead or wounded. Gunn is secure.”

  “Very good, Thep. Very good, indeed. Are any available for questioning?” He desperately wanted to know the truth. That the Merchant Giles was responsible for the uprising and that it was all connected with Brogon Lord rising from the grave. Nothing else was satisfying.

  “One or two. Most of the wounded are a bit … disgruntled by recent events,” Thep said with a grin. “We have them rounded up and detained away from the others.”

  Einos clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done. Take me to them. I will question them myself.”

  “Yes, Baron,” Thep said with a bow.

  It was all Einos could do to maintain dignity as he stormed across the ruined street.

  FORTY-THREE

  Castle Fent

  “Wait. No one move!” Kastus called as he held up his right hand.

  He watched as Waern wobbled into the street. Whatever had befallen the Elder was unexpected, perhaps worse. Two ruffians prodded him on, only backing away when they were sure Waern was in the middle of the street. Wary looks, prompted by eyes flitting from side to side, took in the scene. Kastus spied the hopelessness in them. The advantage was his.

  Arella, the war priest, was unconvinced. “You suspect a trap?”

  “After all we’ve been through? Anything is possible,” he confirmed.

  “Let me go in. None can withstand the power of the Purifying Flame,” she said. Her demeanor was stern, overbearing.

  Kastus wondered where the Order found their recruits. He was impressed with Quinlan, and now Arella, but neither were the sort he wanted to share a mug of ale and conversation with. People like that didn’t belong in Fent, and he hoped to never see another once this affair ended.

  “This does not feel right,” he reiterated.

  Those suspicions were confirmed a heartbeat later when three arrows were fired down from nearby second story windows. All three struck Waern in the back. The old man cried out and fell to the ground. Dead before he hit.

  “Back! Get out of range!” Kastus shouted.

  Soldiers hurried to escape the potential slaughter from unseen enemies. Frustrated, Kastus scanned rooftops and windows for potential hiding spots. No further arrows were fired. No signs of Giles’s men preparing to attack.

  Arella was at his side, sword drawn and cloak cast aside. “They will not come out in the face of this force. Perhaps it is best to burn them out.”

  “And risk burning half the village?” Kastus exclaimed. “There must be a better way.”

  “There is. Let my novice and I do what we came here to do,” Arella insisted. “We are warriors. The best in the land.”

  “If I do that, and he escapes, I risk turning the entire village into a combat zone. Every civilian will be in jeopardy,” he told her, reasoning through his thought process as he did.

  “An acceptable risk provided all works out in our favor. Constable, we are wasting time.”

  Kastus decided he did not like the war priests, necessary as they may be. Not only was Arella unexpected, she was forcing an issue that might result in countless innocent deaths. It was his worst nightmare. “No, there is a better way. Let me do this my way. If that fails, burn the place to the ground.”

  She stepped back and sheathed her sword without comment.

  One battle won. Emboldened, Kastus puffed out three quick breaths and took charge. “I want that building surrounded. Bring up the ram. Shields for everyone getting close. I don’t want any undue risks. Our primary objective is to capture Merchant Giles and subdue his men. The less violence, the better. These are still citizens of Fent.”

  Sergeant Sanice left him to relay the orders. Her place, as assigned by Captain Thep, was at Kastus’s side, no matter how much he protested otherwise. Not that Kastus took solace in such, for she was every bit as hostile as the war priest. Soon after, he was ready to enact the second part of his plan.

  She returned almost too easily. Despite his misgivings, Kastus took comfort in her presence. “Ready?”

  “Enough. We must strike now,” she said.

  He clenched a fist and stormed into the middle of the street. “Merchant Giles! This is Constable Kastus. Under the Baron’s authority, I am placing you under arrest for treason against Fent and the suspected murder of Tender Cannandal. Throw down your arms and come outside. This is your one opportunity.”

  Silence replied in mocking severity. A pair of black winged pigeons burst from their perch to his right, startling him. Kastus frowned despite predicting this outcome. He had nominal command of half the army and all his police forces, to include a war priest, and his presence of force wasn’t enough to inspire dread in the accused.

  “Giles!” he bellowed.

  A shutter cracked open. Gloved hands shoved a bucket out and dumped the contents in the street. A chamber pot. Kastus had his answer. Infuriated, the Constable turned back to his force. Choice was gone. Giles dared him with the insult, forcing him into a corner.

  “Break the doors down!” he shouted.

  Men and women rushed to the building. Flanking ranks of shield bearers protected them from arrow fire. Kastus flinched at the sound of the wooden ram striking the door repeatedly. Each impact fractured and splintered the old pine until the door burst inward. More liquid poured from the second story windows, drenching some of his men. Kastus and the others watched in horror as a flaming brand was cast down and those covered in liquid caught alight.

  “Inside, now! Kill the bastards,” growled a female voice to his right.

  In shock, Kastus watched as Sergeant Sanice drew her short sword and led the follow up element to clear the building. Butchers’ work. Soldiers roared.
Some in rage. Others fury. The sprint across the street went unmolested and he soon lost sight of her. Mere moments had passed from the dropping torch to her assault. A heartbeat, possibly two. Kastus hadn’t moved.

  A gentle hand grabbed his forearm. “Constable, order your people to help those on fire. There is yet time.”

  Arella was right. Good citizens of Fent were dying, roasting to char while he stood mouth agape. Embarrassed, Kastus did as instructed. Four men and two women died from their wounds. Several more would be horribly scarred for the rest of their lives, painful reminders of the lure of greed and the consequences of treason. His heart wept, for he knew a handful would not survive the night. Their burns were grievous. Heart heavy, he hardly heard the furious sounds of combat coming from the warehouse.

  A rage came upon him. Alien. Unfamiliar as it insinuated through his veins. He stormed to where Waern lay and began kicking the corpse. Bones crunched with a sickening sound. Kastus screamed, a pitiless cry lost among the men and women being extinguished nearby. Weeks of pent up frustration burst free. Each kick moved the body. He only stopped when Jayon pulled him away.

  Madness turned his visage into blind hatred. Kastus jerked free. “Leave me alone! I want that man dead.”

  “Constable, this outburst is pointless. Others are looking to you for guidance,” Arella said, after slipping beside him. “You must show composure and strength.”

  He clenched his fists. “Not now. I’ve had enough of playing the good guy. It is time to make our enemies pay.”

  Arella addressed her novice. “Do not let him enter that building. Detain him by force, if necessary.”

  “Yes, Sister Arella,” Jayon said with a bow. The shriek of steel being drawn echoed across the street.

  Satisfied she’d done what she could to keep Kastus from succumbing to a creature less than what he hoped to be, Arella collected ten of the nearest soldiers and led them around to the rear of the building. They skirted past the charcoaled bodies, the smell of burnt flesh rancid. Most of the flames were extinguished, though a small part of the building was starting to burn. If they didn’t stop it in time, there was the potential of losing half of the village.

  Such concerns weren’t her issue, so she kept moving. Others were taking care of the flames. As was proper, all things considered. Finding the merchant and ending his collusion with the Omegri was paramount. All else was relegated to secondary interests. Arella moved with grace and confidence in her pale blue armor, replete with a silver cross emblazoned in the middle. She’d decided against her helmet. Urban warfare was unlike combat on the open plain. She couldn’t risk having her vision impaired.

  “We breach here,” she said after leading them to a seemingly ignored side door. Her calculations suggested they would enter nearest the stairwell. Arella had no illusions that her prey was hidden away in the upper recesses of his private fortress. “I go first. Follow two steps behind. I will have need of room to swing should we meet contact. We make for the stairs and do not stop until this Giles is in custody. Understood?”

  Heads bobbed and nodded.

  Not the disciplined soldiers who came to Andrak for the Burning Season, but they would do. “Good. Go forth and fear no darkness.”

  Rather than barge in and face a similar incident as the initial assault, Arella placed her gloved hand on the knob, twisted, and pushed. That the door swung open in a quiet groan surprised her. Arella suspected a trap but it was too late. With Sanice engaging the brigands from the front, she was betting on no one watching the back.

  She wasn’t disappointed. Arella slipped into the building and found she was alone. The others followed behind; some eager to watch the war priest in action, others too nervous to stay outside alone. They were in a small chamber with a small window. Gloomy and filled with distorted shadows. An empty barrel lay on its side, lid askew. Two chairs lacking the same layer of dust coating everything else were on opposite sides of the barrel. A guard room. She gestured for the soldiers to hang back.

  Arella shifted her balance and raised her sword as she forged ahead. Two steps later a shadow displaced and she was faced with one of the defenders. The man attacked without sound, whether from training or malevolence, was unclear. The war priest barely managed to block the thrust, shoving it aside as her attacker crashed into her. They stumbled back and forth until Arella threw an elbow into his face.

  Roars of pain as cartilage shattered filled the small room. Arella moved with grace and speed. The lethal combination won through his meager defense. Her sword plunged into his exposed chest. She twisted, enlarging the wound and ensuring his demise, and jerked the blade free. He slumped to the floor, still clutching his ruined nose.

  “The stairs are ahead of us. Follow me,” she grated.

  They filed up, into the unknown. Once, so long ago she barely recalled, Arella had been afraid of such circumstances. That was before fighting the Omegri for the first time. Her encounter with the Great Enemy stripped away the innocence of youth, reforging her into a weapon of war. It was with this confidence she emerged on the second story.

  The floor was wide open, half filled with crates, barrels, and boxes. Giles had to have known they were coming and was moving his stock before Kastus arrested him. Sounds of battle increased below. Her confidence buoyed and she suspected all of Giles’s henchmen were engaged. Arella knew better than to trust to hope. Matters found a way to spiral out of control the moment one let their guard down.

  Giles didn’t disappoint. Five men were huddled on the far end of the building. Four waggled swords at her. They were unimportant. It was the fifth that drew her attention. Merchant Giles. Arella closed her eyes, brought her sword to her lips, and blew softly. The cross on her chest began to glow. The power of the Purifying Flame flowed through her. She was a weapon. An extension of the guiding power of the world.

  Arella locked eyes with Giles and addressed her soldiers. “Remove the swordsmen. The merchant is mine.”

  Opposing forces rushed into a collision of steel, straining muscles, and exertion.

  FORTY-FOUR

  The Other Realm

  Quinlan picked himself up, unsteadily getting back on his hands and knees. The blast of energy, while mostly contained by his magically enhanced armor, threw him across the chamber. Steam billowed off him. He felt a dull ache deep in his chest. Sparks danced in his head and it was all he could do to blink them away. The enemy was stronger than he anticipated.

  “Brother Quinlan!” Donal shouted.

  The novice raced to his side before their attacker cast a second blast. Donal helped Quinlan to his feet and they narrowly avoided being skewered by raw energy. The war priests took refuge behind a series of wooden walls partitioning the lower floor. Four stairwells dominated the center, merging into one before rising. Iron railings provided an imposing scene. A dark pit lay beneath the central stair. How deep it went and for what purpose were unknown, though Quinlan suspected the worst.

  “Are you injured?” Donal asked in concern. He’d watched Quinlan take the full brunt of the initial attack moments after entering the tower.

  Quinlan waved him off. “Fine. Where is Dalem?”

  He didn’t say it, but they both knew there was no chance of victory without the sclarem’s power. The minions of the Omegri were ruthless and immensely powerful, regardless of how easy killing the first had been. Quinlan suspected the other two were going to prove most difficult. And they knew he was coming. Advantage was lost.

  “I lost him during the attack,” Donal admitted. Shame tainted his words. “He was on the opposite side of the stairs when I saw him last.”

  “We must find him. It will take all of our strength to defeat these creatures.”

  “War priest! Your hour dwindles. Your castles are destroyed. Your ranks depleted. The time of the Omegri rises. Come. Come and die, so you may be the first to witness their ascent.”

  The voice felt like nails dragging down his back. Words echoed in the deepest recesses of his mind
. Quinlan felt violated. Soiled. He remembered his training and uttered a prayer. The debilitating assault faded and his strength returned.

  “Ignore them, Donal. They mean to beguile us. Trick us into submission while they launch treacherous attack,” he said, after seeing the haze in Donal’s eyes.

  Explosions rocked the far side of the chamber. Smoke and flames erupted in green, blue, and pink. Quinlan knew them for what they were. Witchcraft. Slapping Donal’s shoulder, he beckoned the novice follow. They crept along the wall, circling the battleground until he had a clear vantage point. What he saw sickened him. Twin shadowed figures lashed out with bolts of power. Their energy poured from beneath the hoods of their cloaks. Vitric light seeking to devour all semblance of goodness.

  He searched for any sign of weakness. Watching them, Quinlan felt the pieces of the puzzle slide into place. The Omegri used these fell creatures to facilitate their takeover of the world. He knew the Grey Wanderer took no sides but walked a wobbling line. No doubt these monsters took advantage of Brogon Lord’s resurrection to enslave him. What part the children played after building the tower, remained to be seen.

  “There must be a way,” he whispered.

  It dawned on him that the only attacks were coming from their heads. Neither bore physical weapons, nor were their hands in use. Quinlan didn’t pretend to understand the workings of the Other Realm, nor could he fathom the well of power they drew from. Or how removed from it they were so long as the Omegri were still far away.

  The answer became clear. Remove the heads and the enemy died. Knowing this and being able to enact it were vastly different elements. “Donal, this is the hour you must rise above all your doubts and fear. There is a weakness in these monsters and it will take our combined power to stop them. Are you prepared?”