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  THE CHILDREN OF NEVER

  A War Priest of Andrak Saga

  Christian Warren Freed

  Copyright © 2018 by Christian Warren Freed

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

  First Edition

  First Printing: 2018

  ISBN

  War Fighter Books

  North Carolina 27540

  http://christianfreed.wixsite.com/christianwarrenfreed

  Cover art by Guisy

  ACCLAIM FOR CHRISTIAN WARREN FREED

  HAMMERS IN THE WIND: BOOK I OF THE NORTHERN CRUSADE

  “I love this book. This book hooked my attention on the first page and it was hard to put down. There is darkness in this book, you know something is going to happen so you keep reading to find out what. The author writes it so good, it’s like you are there experiencing what the characters are. And I love it.”

  “I purchased this book to read to see if it would be suitable for my daughter to read. She is advanced in reading, but some books for kids older than her can be a little to much content wise. I think this one will work out great for her and she would enjoy it as much as I did. I'm glad I came across this book and can't wait to read the rest of the series.”

  WHERE HAVE ALL THE ELVES GONE?

  “This story is fresh and a little tongue-in-cheek, a nice fantasy change of pace with twists here and there that make you have to keep on turning the pages.”

  “Christian Warren Freed is a very gifted, well-spoken author and his story took me in from page 1. His descriptions of situations, momentary happenings and his vivid characters of the world within the story made my fantasy run wild. As a reader, I felt like being part of the carefully woven net of this book.”

  THE DRAGON HUNTERS

  “Excellently written. The author is able to really capture the stress, fear, and panic of life and death situations such as combat. Greatly looking forward to the next installment in the series!”

  “Mr. Freed weaves the parts of this tale together smoothly, keeping the story moving at a good pace. He uses his own military background to paint powerful battle images and then he moves on. With only a little background, he makes the reader care about the members of the band - to worry about them and want them to do the 'right thing'. He adds depth to the characters through their actions and his dialogue is very realistic.”

  ARMIES OF THE SILVER MAGE

  “Armies of the Silver Mage was a great read...any fan of Lord of the Rings or Game of Thrones will love this book. I'm looking forward to next book.”

  “The book is almost an homage to the great classics like Sword of Shanara and the Lord of the Rings. The author has cleverly used his past military and combat experience to make the battle scenes more realistic.”

  Other Books by Christian Warren Freed

  The Northern Crusade

  Hammers in the Wind

  Tides of Blood and Steel

  A Whisper After Midnight

  Empire of Bones

  The Madness of Gods and Kings

  Even Gods Must Fall

  The Histories of Malweir

  Armies of the Silver Mage

  The Dragon Hunters

  Beyond the Edge of Dawn

  Forgotten Gods

  Dreams of Winter

  The Madman on the Rocks

  Anguish Once Possessed

  Through Darkness Besieged*

  Where Have All the Elves Gone?

  Tomorrow’s Demise: The Extinction Campaign*

  Tomorrow’s Demise: Paths of Salvation*

  The Lazarus Men: A Lazarus Men Agenda

  Coward’s Truth: A Novel of the Heart Eternal*

  A Long Way From Home: Memories and Observations From Iraq and Afghanistan

  Immortality Shattered

  Law of the Heretic

  The Bitter War of Always

  Land of Wicked Shadows

  Storm Upon the Dawn

  War Priests of Andrak Saga

  The Children of Never

  SO, You Want to Write a Book? +

  *Forthcoming+ Nonfiction

  For my fans. You know who you are.

  ONE

  Fent

  Mist hovered over the near empty fields. Stands of cedar and black pine broke the monotony of what many considered the endless boredom of the grass plains. Pastures and farmlands stretched as far as a man might walk in a day and beyond. Folks here kept to themselves and preferred others to do the same.

  Spring was just beginning, and the early bloom of wild flowers peppered the ground beneath the roiling mists. Tombstones and other crude burial markers filled the small field outside of the village of Fent. Generations were buried within the field’s confines, though modernity demanded fresh bodies be burned atop a pyre so that their ashes might get to the next realm quicker than the slow rot the earth offered.

  Still, the old ways, however antiquated, remained strong in many of the older generations still toiling. Their reward, that final rest, had yet to come, leaving them in the unenviable position of becoming the stewards of what once was. A gloomy task on the best of days. Not all the dead were given the flame. Many continued to be thrown into the long, cold sleep of the ground.

  Dawn was breaking, the first thin tendrils of pale light stretched across the darkened skies. Roosters crowed. Farmers rose and readied for the long day. Had any been in the fields, they might have caught a glimpse of an old man, crooked and dressed in faded grey robes, stalking down the dirt road leading to the cemetery. He carried a small lantern that swung with every step. The Grey Wanderer some named him. Others simply chose a more apt name: The Soul Stealer.

  Whistling as he went, the Grey Wanderer sniffed the air for the scent of those freshly dead. Some whispered he was once a king of men. Others suggested he had been a sorcerer of great power who’d made a deal with fell powers. Most didn’t care; they avoided all mention of him. Wherever the Grey Wanderer went, bad things followed.

  He paused at the cemetery gates and raised his lantern high. A wash of light fell over the tombstones, showing him what he’d come to find. Fresh earth cast over the recently deceased. His smile was thin and insidious. The Grey Wanderer began to whistle. It was a ghastly sound, unfit for mortal ears. A cry to the ones in the deep beyond whose very existence threatened the sanity of the masses.

  Once he finished his task, the Grey Wanderer lowered his lantern and continued walking. He avoided passing through the sleepy village, choosing instead to disappear back into the mists of time and space. His work here was finished.

  The ground shook at his passing. Fresh dirt slipped from the top of the mound. The tombstone, carelessly erected, toppled and broke. Hands, withered and clawed, punched free from their eternal tomb. They reached and dug, frantic to free their body. Rock and dirt cascaded away from the naked body as the once dead man pulled his head and arms from the ground.

  Shoulder length hair the color of midnight had fallen over his face. Bits of wood and dirt fell away from his flesh. The once dead man held up his hands and blinked the grime away from his eyes. His flesh was riddled with damage where the worms and underground rodents had already begun their feasts. Bone glinted from numerous places in the fading dark. He stared at what he had become and cast his head back, uttering a primal scream.

  Frantic, the once dead man shoved armfuls of dirt away, desperate to be free of his prison. His chest was covered in hair matted to his flesh. A red
and black snake dropped from beneath his armpit. The once dead man worked furiously before being rewarded. He crawled and climbed free and collapsed beside the pieces of his tombstone. Memory lost, the once dead man peered to make out the name engraved upon the stone. Brogon Lord.

  He had once been a man named Brogon Lord. That name, and the life associated with it, no longer held meaning, for he had died. This mockery of reanimated flesh was a far cry from the warmth of life. The panic subsided, and the once dead man began to think. Images born of random thoughts filled his mind. He watched events play out, an entire age born and died in a heartbeat. The once dead man knew what must be done. Who he once was no longer mattered. He once again had purpose.

  Far off on the dying night, he heard whistling.

  *****

  Barin and Covis ran through the back alleys. The two boys were determined not to be caught by the third of their group. Slipping between the lengthy strides of grumbling adults, they hurried away in an attempt at hiding that would ultimately end in failure. Fent wasn’t an overly large village, often being confused by the duchy it was named for, and there were only so many prime hiding spots where one might feasibly be able to avoid detection.

  Covis burst into laughs as he dashed beneath a stationary horse and kept running. Crates of fruit and vegetables lined the wall to his right.

  “Stop laughing, Covis! That wasn’t funny,” Barin scolded as he took the extra effort of going around the horse.

  Undaunted, the younger Covis kept running. He hadn’t been discovered the last three times the boys on his street played. It was an instance of great pride for the young boy. No one had ever won four times consecutively. He kept running, knowing having Barin clinging to him would only hurt his odds. Covis liked Barin, but the thought of winning was all that was on his mind at this moment.

  He ducked down a narrow side alley, barely three feet between buildings, and hid behind a pile of old garbage. The stench was raw, overpowering. Covis plugged his nose and mouth and tried not to throw up. Through watery eyes, he saw Barin rush past without looking. Covis broke into a wide grin and turned to continue down the alley.

  A crow cawed from the nearest rooftop, startling the boy. Covis slowed, suddenly unnerved. Cold spread through the alley. He shivered as his flesh prickled. Worried, Covis decided to abandon his game. Let one of the others win. He was already a legend. There’d be other times to defend his title. Right now, he only wanted to go home to the safety of his mother’s arms while the bad sensations faded into memory.

  He was halfway down the alley when what he thought was a pile of trash rose and blocked the way. Covis skid to a halt. His muscles refused to work, rebelling against the screams from his mind to turn and flee. Waves of energy funneled off the man, for what else could it be? Covis squinted and was rewarded with identifying a pair of eyes the color of ice glaring at him from behind a mask of coal black hair. An arm rose. Maggots dripped from the desiccated flesh. Covis gagged. A hand stretched forth to clasp around his throat. Covis knew only darkness.

  Realizing he had wandered too far, Barin decided to turn back and head for more familiar parts of the village. Concerned for himself, it took the boy close to an hour before he remembered Covis. They couldn’t both be lost. Could they?

  “Covis! Where are you? I want to go home,” he called.

  The squeak in his voice echoed up and down the brick walls towering over him. Barin began to worry. It wasn’t like any of the boys to disappear in the middle of their game for any longer than was necessary to win. He knew Covis was a master at this and wondered if his friend was secretly watching from the shadows.

  “This isn’t funny! Come out, Covis. The game is over,” he called, a touch of anger lining his voice.

  Random voices from the main avenue drowned out any other noise. Frustrated, Barin balled his fists and rounded the last alley. Shadows half-filled the passage, but he was able to make out small piles of old garbage and what looked like a boot. Barin swallowed his rising fear. The boot belonged to Covis.

  “Covis?” he called.

  He crept forward. There was no reason he could figure out that Covis would leave one of his boots. Close enough to touch it, Barin bent down. His eyes followed what looked like scuff marks dug into the dirt and stopped on three specks of a dark liquid. Blood. Alone and suddenly afraid, Barin backed out of the alley and ran for home.

  *****

  Late spring nights were always cool to Lizette. A mother to a well-loved daughter, she stood on her porch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders as she gazed at the stars. There was majesty up there. Another realm of possibility very few understood. She often wondered if those pinpricks of light were more than just that. Was there more in the night sky? A rumor circulated the lands, no doubt spread by the Collegium in the city of Beacon far to the west. Yet another place she’d only heard of.

  Lizette had never left the duchy of Fent. In fact, she’d hardly been beyond the edges of the village of Fent. Twenty-seven long, hard years spent toiling away, first as a seamstress and now adding the duties of a mother. Life wasn’t kind to people like her. People the nobility ignored and the powerful dominated. She often wondered who would notice if she was no longer around. Pointless to think about that, Lizette knew she was going nowhere until her daughter was a grown woman and hion her own.

  A smile warming her face at the thought of her daughter, Lizette turned from the stars and went to check on Tabith. She reminded her of her late husband. Her smile dimmed a bit. She walked softly through the quiet, dark house, stopping by the fireplace to swing the teapot over the flames. A mug of hot tea was the perfect remedy for the cool spring night.

  Their cottage was meager by every consideration, but it boasted having three rooms. Few families enjoyed the luxury of having separate bedrooms for their children. Lizette made it a point of pride among her friends. The living room flowed into a small kitchen. They had an outhouse in the back yard, complete with wash basin. She kept it as clean as possible, no small feat, all things considered. Tabith did her best to ensure her mother had work every time she came home from her actual paying job on Merchant Row.

  Lizette listened to the flames cackle, relishing the sound of what she attributed to peace, before going to check on Tabith. She took only two steps before jerking to a stop. It is said that mothers were more in tune with their surroundings when children entered their lives. Lizette knew every crevice and shadowed corner of their home, from the busted shutter on the kitchen window that slammed into the wall every time the wind gusted, to the creaking board three steps in from the front door. She also knew that Tabith was adamant about closing her door each and every night. A door that was now cracked an inch open.

  Crossing swiftly, Lizette reached for the wooden knob and pushed. The door swung open slowly, allowing darkness to creep out. A niggling sensation crawled over her flesh. Lizette closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. Her mind tried to rationalize her unease, that her worry was a figment of an overactive imagination born from the whispers of missing children around town.

  Peasants were always starting baseless rumors when the need to alleviate boredom arose. Lizette paid no mind to any of that, until now. Heart hammering, she entered Tabith’s room and crossed to the edge of the bed, whispering her daughter’s name. She reached down and felt… nothing. The bed was empty. Tabith was gone.

  Lizette’s screams were heard across the whole village of Fent.

  TWO

  Fent

  Baron Einos awoke to unfamiliar sensations. Cold, almost unbearable, filled his bedchambers. Winter was a memory and spring well underway. This southern duchy was well south of the northern ice flows and far enough east of the Barbacus River to avoid the heavy winds. A thick blanket and small fire in the hearth were more than sufficient for keeping Einos warm throughout the shortening nights.

  The Baron wiped the crud from the corners of his eyes, yawned, and sat up. His bearskin blanket fell away, exposing his naked
chest. Young for one of the ruling class, Einos was broad across the shoulders and slabbed with muscle. His sand colored hair draped across his shoulders. Bright green eyes scanned the chamber.

  His wife, still sleeping, shifted beside him and exhaled deeply. Einos resisted the urge to rouse her, at least until he was satisfied nothing was amiss. Not finding anything of concern in the immediate area, he slipped from the bed and donned a thick robe that fell to the floor. The fire had gone out, leaving the chamber in darkness. Frowning, Einos reached for the short sword he kept beside the bed. Fent was a relatively peaceful duchy, but one does not rise to power without creating enemies capable of extreme violence.

  He took a step, then a strange noise froze him in midstride. Einos gripped his sword tighter. “Who goes?”

  The sound of sobbing returned. Einos frowned, certain he’d heard a child. There were numerous children in the keep, though none his own. Aneth, his wife of nearly a decade, was heavy with child and due by the end of spring. He suspected the draft coming through the cracks in the walls provided the strange sounds, but one could never be too cautious.

  Einos fumbled for a match and lit the candle nearest his bed. Soft light turned his bedchamber into a shadowed realm. Einos remained still, listening against the dark. His efforts were rewarded by uncontrollable sobbing coming from the far corner. Sword in one hand, candle the other, the Baron of Fent took a step closer to the sound.

  His exposed toes kicked the chamber pot, spilling old piss over his foot. Einos snarled a curse and kept going as the sobbing intensified. A wall of light crept across the stone floor until it reached the huddled figure of a young child. Einos cocked his head as he tried to get a clear view of the face. Knees drawn with arms wrapped around them, the child, a girl by the length of her hair, had her face buried.