A Dead Place Calls, part 2
A Heroic Epic Fantasy Novelette
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.
A hood had been pulled over Finch’s head. Outside, he heard the sounds of other men. There were horses, too, by the smell. He could hear the rattle of chains, and the shuffling of another pair of feet. It was cold, but the sky was clear. Finch felt the warmth of the sun on his hands.
“A holy man is to join me on my ride through the streets of Arcatia?” a defiant voice asked. Surely, a braggart of some sort, Finch deduced.
“Quiet you,” the jailer said. There was a loud thud, and a moan. Finch guessed the braggart had been silenced by a club to the gut.
“Strip him!” the jailer commanded. Footsteps came for Finch.
“I have dungeon fever. Which one of you would want my clothes, even to sell for lots?” Finch asked.
Guards tore away Finch’s raiment, leaving him shivering in his small clothes.
“Why do you dress me this way? They will stone me,” the braggart pleaded. A punch or kick silenced him.
Ropes were cinched and chains locked. “On with you, nag!” the jailer said. The snap of a whip bit the air and the hind quarter of the horse. There was a gallop of hooves across a stone road, and a horrible bobbing sound as the braggart was dragged away. Ahead, heavy gates creaked open to the hooting and whistling of crowds.
Finch wondered if he was next. He desperately sniffed the air for a horse. Another came. Two, he guessed by the number of clattering hooves, and perhaps a drawn wagon. A door swung open, slamming against the carriage wall.
“Get inside,” a new voice said, deep, clear, and commanding.
“As you wish my lord,” Finch said. He blindly lifted his leg, searching for a ledge on which to step into the carriage, brushing the new voice’s hip which was higher than his own. There was a hilt of a sword, but no purse or pocket. Militia, or a soldier more likely as he seemed to have no coin. As Finch was lifted by the tall man into the carriage, he felt the cracked leather of worn gloves and noted the unmistakable scent of spirits drank to excess the night before.
“Where are you taking me, good sir?” Finch asked. Manacles were locked onto his wrists and ankles.
“You are blessed today, heretic. His holy might, the Hand of God, has gifted you absolution. We go now for you to claim your salvation,” the tall voice said, altogether too cheerfully. The carriage door was slammed shut and locked on the outside with a sliding bolt.
This was not going well. Not well at all.
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