Fleeting Word: Kallattian Legacy, #0

By Andrew D Meredith

War ends - Secrets hide - Faith beckons

 

Nethendel Unteel is comfortable in his life at the father monastery of Pariantür. But when the long-raging Protectorate Wars suddenly end, and life threatens to return to normal, Nethendel learns of a woman the dark gods wish to bind to their schemes. He must decide what to do with the secrets he uncovers.

 

Secrets threaten to expose lies, heroes are not always the brave, and plans are set in motion by those that mortals dare not question.

 

Fleeting Word is a Kallattian Legacy novella, and acts as both the Prelude to the Kallattian Saga and Postlude to the Protectorate Wars by Andrew D Meredith.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Games Afoot, LLC
• Release date: Aug 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223950929

Andrew D Meredith

Andrew D Meredith’s journey has taken him to many fantastical places. From selling books in the wilds of western Washington to designing and publishing board games in the great white midwest. He’s now committed to the quest he was called to so long ago: the telling of fantastical tales, and bringing to life underestimated characters willing to take on the responsibilities no one else will. Follow him on social media under profile @AndrewDMth on YouTube, Instagram, and Twitter

Book preview

ALSO BY

KALLATTIAN SAGA

VOLUME 1: DEATHLESS BEAST

VOLUME 2: BONE SHROUD

VOLUME 3: GLOVES OF EONS

VOLUME 4: DREAD KNIGHT (future release)

KALLATTIAN LEGACY STORIES

FLEETING WORD

NEEDLE & LEAF

BOOK 1: THRICE

BOOK 2: FOUR-SCORED

FORWARD

Welcome to Fleeting Word , a novella set in the world of Kallattai, three generations before the events of the Kallattian Saga.

If you haven’t read the Kallattian Saga, you need not worry. This novella stands alone, but is also chock-full of easter eggs and zero spoilers. As you go on to read the Kallattian Saga, I’m sure you’ll spot plenty of call backs to this novella.

And for those of you who have read the Kallattian Saga...you’re welcome.

Enjoy Fleeting Word!

—ANDREW D MEREDITH

PROLOGUE

The map of the Protectorates and Ikhala had seen better days long before it had been marked with black X’s, spilled ink, and red notations. At one head of the table, High Marshal Denzig of the Nemen Academy held the steel pointer in one hand.

A handful of vül were seen fleeing west. So long as the Ikhalan river blockade is still in place, the creatures won’t see morning.

How large a squadron follows them? asked the smaller man at the other end. He was half the age of the High Marshal and a full head shorter, but carried himself with chin held high. The ornate paladinial armor he wore, adorned with symbols of the four-winged ælerne eagle and a red slashed cape, gave him a regality to match the royalty that stood at the other end of the tent, chatting over goblets of victory wine and plates of battle rations.

Twenty Zhigavan hussars.

Then either call them off, or double their number.

It’s perhaps only ten vül, Prima Pater. And you know the hatred the Zhigavans have for vül.

Then you also know the hatred that vül have for being cornered, Dorian Mür said. If those hussars catch the vül unawares, the monsters will ravage them. None shall return. Let them go. They are defeated.

Only to return another day, Denzig said.

My order stands.

Dorian, another Paladin said, touching the shoulder of the Prima Pater.

Dorian turned and followed the pointing hand of the attendant to the tent door as it flapped closed behind a young squire doubled over, his hands on his knees.

Dorian crossed the room and stood before the boy. Having caught his breath, the squire straightened, and like everyone in the tent, stood taller than the young Prima Pater.

What is the news, Valér?

The young Œronzi boy spoke in a very thick accent. Prima Pater, he is dead.

Dorian slowly turned to the tent, a smile plastered across his face. Ollistan Gœrnstadt, the Apostate and Necromancer is dead! We have won! The Protectorate Wars surely come to an end!

The cheer that went up, rippling out through the entirety of camp, was the first sign of genuine joy any of them had experienced in well over a year.

Dorian’s smile faded slowly as his eyes locked with another Paladin by the door—Brother Averin of the infirmary. The Paladin had taken the Vow of Silence and held his hands low, signing so that only Dorian might see.

He spoke final words, Averin signed, as I sat with him while he died.

Dorian arched an eyebrow.

As you suspect, he is survived by a wife and child.

Dorian gave a confirming nod and turned back to the tent, trying to enjoy the victory, now soured by yet another loose end that would need his attention.

CHAPTER 1 — LONG TRIAL’S END

As the soldier went off to fight the war,

To maiden’s face his heart was sworn...

—Opening lines of the age-old poem, Vevomenia

NETHENDEL FINISHED his prayers by reciting the twenty-two links as he rose from his knees. The hammer at his belt shifted into a much more comfortable position, the haft falling beside him, the twenty-two elongated chain links clattering against one another.

He walked to his door, lifted the handle, pulled, and entered the hall. A pair of Paladins moved down the dark corridor, stopping at each alcove to check the length of the candles that illuminated the rich darkness—clipping wicks, relighting others, and replacing entirely those that had burned a bit too low for their taste.

Nethendel took off in the other direction, setting a steady pace and wending his way through the halls of the fortress monastery as the sound of merriment grew.

By the time he had reached the refectory hall, the celebration was a din. Paladins shouted over the jubilant noise. Most wore their full regalia: the steel tower gorget and breastplate over full-body leathers. A thousand candles shone off everyone’s freshly shaven heads.

A few Paladins sat at tables with their counterparts, the Paladames, wearing their silver plate-mail filigreed in rose motifs or just simple white robes with various symbols of the aspects of purity denoting their personal observations. A group of the women had congregated on the far side of the massive dining room behind lackadaisically hung cordons.

Despite the late hour, food continually poured from the kitchens—a feast he was unaware of fully in progress.

What is going on? Nethendel asked, touching the arm of another Paladin in only a brown robe and gorget.

The man turned and looked at him, confusion clearly written on his face. What do you mean?

Why the celebration? Nethendel shouted over the din.

How do you not know? the Paladin asked incredulously.

Nethendel is a Day-Sleeper, a familiar voice said from behind.

Nethendel turned with a smile to Brother Nilus Castenol. He held out a goblet of mead to Nethendel. He had never confirmed it, but most suspected he was nobility from Castenard. In the end, his pedigree didn’t matter, since he had left behind his old life to become a Paladin, and Nethendel valued their friendship enough not to ask about his past before he’d taken up the hammer.

Cheers, Nilus said, lifting his own goblet. My Faith in Grissone.

My Faith in Grissone, Nethendel said in response and took a sip. What are we celebrating?

You truly do not know? Nilus asked with a wide smile.

Nethendel shook his head. I only just finished my waking prayers.

That’s the disadvantage to your following that philosophy of yours. You miss all the good news.

You almost took to Peace of Night philosophy yourself.

Taking the Vow of Pacifism was enough for me. And besides, I enjoy sunlight too much.

You still haven’t told me what is going on.

Finish that goblet and I’ll tell you. It won’t be your last.

I haven’t had anything to eat yet.

When was the last time our Order opened up the cellar for any and all to eat and drink to their heart’s content?

There was news from the front, wasn’t there?

Nilus nodded as he took another drink.

Did...we win?

Nilus grinned broadly.

Why didn’t you say so?! Nethendel said, his jaw dropping.

It was much more fun watching you flounder. Come on, let’s get some food.

They took up wooden bowls and walked around one of the tables covered in a spread of food. It was the first time Nethendel had seen ham in years, having been rationed and stored for frontline use only. He took a large slice and then dumped a ladle of fruit preserves over top of it.

Word is, a major battle began over two weeks ago, near the edge of the Ikhalan Desert. It was not pretty, but it ended with Dorian striking the Ol’ Deathmaker down! He’s dead!

It hardly seems believable, Nethendel said.

It’s no rumor. Pater Ormir rode in bearing the Standard of Grissone. Within an hour, bells were pealing and this celebration started. How did you sleep through it all?

My cell is an interior one. I don’t have windows. And the backside of my door has wool hanging over it. My responsibilities at the market are important. I don’t let anything interrupt my sleep.

I can’t imagine seeking out a life of faith to our god, only to be assigned the duty of buying fish from the night market.

Someone has to, Nethendel replied. Why not me?

Well, now you know the news. And I see Sister Paloma.

Nethendel glanced to where Nilus looked to see the elegantly beautiful Yahel Paloma, raven-haired, with sun-browned skin of Morriego or Setera. Nilus had had his eye on her for some time. Admittedly, so had Nethendel. The other Paladin floated toward her and the group of five or six men and women hanging on her every word.

Nethendel refilled his goblet and made his way across the room toward where he knew a large group of the Paladames would be congregating. He stopped at