A Dead Place Calls

A Heroic Epic Fantasy Novelette, Part 1

A Death Speaker priest and a sullen deserter of a defeated army search for a missing boy gifted with foresight – a boy who knows when the last day will come. But Finch Crushluck is no Death Speaker. He’s a street con and beggar, posing as a dark priest to sell lies to fools desperate to learn their fate in the coming apocalypse. To pull off his greatest scam and save his neck from his mad companion’s blade, he needs to make the dead talk and the boy reveal his secret. If he can do this and survive the pursuit of vengeful barbarians and the specters of Mist Dwarfs, he just might live long enough to see the end of the world.

“You’re saying, the gibbet’s going to crack open like a termite-infested log split by an ax?” the beggar asked.

“No mention of axes falling, mate, if you get my meaning,” the fat one said. Everyone laughed.

“Only Helden knows when it’s your day. Your day to go,” Finch Crushluck said. He was on a roll. They were listening to every word. Even the guards, leaning on the banisters, peering down into the pit, were hooked. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be had from the unwashed bunch down here. The poor wretches locked up with him had nothing to give – except for first drink from the morning water bucket.

Urine-soaked floors and sour sweat created a sickening sensation of warmth. Finch motioned his fellows to back away, closing his eyes as if in solemn prayer. There was no escaping their reek, no cool breeze wafting through an open window. A cough had taken hold in his chest, and bile came up with the spit. His last days were to be spent here, of that he was sure. A vision of death, even his own, made him a priest of Helden. No better time to find religion than his last days, he mocked himself.

“What about me, brother? Will it be the noose in the morning? There was no way of knowing those rounds of silk belonged to anyone. They were just setting there in that wagon.”

Finch closed his eyes and held his hand over the man’s head, pressing harder, forcing him to kneel. “Two years hard labor for you.” Cheers erupted.

Finch’s shiver and a raspy cough stopped him from bowing to his audience. Good thing because it would not have looked holy to do so. He could make up any outlandishness here. No one looks down from a noose to correct a lie.

There was hoarse gasping for air, crackling with phlegm, followed by the sound of dragging. Inmates parted to let through a pathetic creature covered in grime from head to toe. His matted hair hung in clumps. His legs and one of his arms were nothing more than pink stumps. With his calloused arm and hand, he pushed himself up to see Finch. An odd tic caused his mouth to move before any words came.

“And what of me, brother? How much do I got left?” Crawler asked. Finch helped him sit.

“You will find peace,” Finch said. Holding both sides of Crawler’s head, he kissed him on the brow. Finch felt a lump form in his throat and his voice crack. He turned away to wipe his eyes. No one said a word.

The jail’s silence was broken by the clanking of heavy iron keys. Someone was going to hang or be sent away.

“Back away you wretches. The lot of you!” called the jailer, rapping the bars with a club. He swung open the jail cell door. “I’ve seen enough death down here, to be on first name basis with the old gods and the new. None of them take a shine to derelicts like you.”

Two guards pushed the inmates away. The younger of the two took Finch by the arm with surprising gentleness. “This way, brother,” he said, lowering his head and averting his eyes.

“Pray for us,” a prisoner called after Finch. A chorus of “pray for me on my day,” followed Finch up the stairs.

“Is the end truly near, brother?” the young guard asked. Finch paused.

“It is for all of us, my son,” Finch said.

“Move along,” the jailer barked. “This one’s no holy man. Just another beggar, and heretic, to boot.”

“And what of my mum,” the young guard asked. His voice quivered as he steeled his gaze to hold back tears. “Her fever. . . do you see her coming to an end this night?”

“Let’s go!” The jailer said, pushing Finch up the stairs. “You can move your feet quicker than that. There’s no collar waiting to stretch your neck.”