A Dead Place Calls, part 3

Epic grimdark fantasy set in a dying world

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.

Sunlight filtered through tall stained glass windows and lit up floating motes of dust. Mosaics pressed into sheets of gold and brass depicted the Maker, his acts of creation, and his vanquishing of pagan gods of old. Embroidered tapestries, bigger than the sails of ships, hung on the walls. Marble pillars supported a golden dome.

“Would the priest of Helden take tea this afternoon?” The Hand of God asked. His manner was to look at no one, and expect a reply. None came.

The Hand of God sat in an ornate wood litter, a throne with handles, lined with pillows of crimson silk. His jeweled bracelets clinked as he dabbed saliva dribbling from the corners of his mouth. There was something different about this fellow, besides his opulence, Finch thought. His eyes bulged, and cheeks were swollen. A small man, he was dwarfed by the pewter stole he wore. His pink hands were no bigger than rose petals, but his fingers were long and probing like the twitching antennae of a butterfly.

Finch had never seen the Hand of God before. In fact, he had believed he did not exist. Seeing him now, Finch still was uncertain he was real. He was so soft, so alien, seemingly too frail to survive, not unlike a snail pulled from its shell.

Did one speak to the Hand or to his lackeys? Still wearing only his small clothes, Finch was cold. A spot of tea would indeed be nice. Clearing his throat, he assumed the straightest posture possible given the weight of the manacles.

“That would be lovely, your grace. You are most kind,” Finch said. “Would it be forward of me to ask for a stool or chair on which I could rest? The chains are cutting into my ankles. I have lost all feeling in my feet.”

A kindly monk dressed in a brown robe smiled. Then he slapped Finch’s face. Finch’s grunt echoed in the chamber.

“Would you like tea this afternoon, priest of Helden?” Kindly Monk asked.

“Yes, yes,” Finch said, checking his mouth. His cheek and lips stung, but there was no bleeding. “And a chair, if it isn’t too much bother.”

“Tea for the pagan,” Kindly Monk called before returning to his place behind Finch.

Servants scrambled to arrange a delicate three-legged table next to Finch, covering it with doilies. A porcelain pot of tea was set with a matching cup and saucer. Tea was poured and stirred with a few drops of cream.

Another monk approached. His white blond hair fell in bangs over his sweaty brow and came to curled tips at his shoulders. His nose and cheeks blanched red and his teeth were stained. A crimson rope cinched his robe at the waist.

“These times make strange company, priest of Helden. Indeed, no member of your faith has ever been admitted to these august halls prior to this day,” Red Monk said. And still there was no chair or stool.

“Thank you,” Finch said, shivering. He sipped tea, the cup and saucer rattling with the chains. “And for the tea, my brother.”

“Eh . . . brother?” Red Monk soured. Finch was ready to convert, whatever it took to spare him the beggar’s collar. Red Monk’s frown squashed that notion. This was no initiation. The doors would open for Finch again only to boot him out to the gutters.

“To the matter at hand. Helden, pagan god of death. Knower of all things. All memories. All deeds, good and foul,” Red Monk said.

Finch struggled for something to add. He had never read the book of Helden, and knew not whether such a tome existed. He closed his eyes solemnly and bowed his head.

“He saves a place for us all.” Finch was quite proud of his quick thinking until he heard disapproving clearings of throats and nasally harrumphs from beyond his peripheral vision.

“Yes. Yes. I am sure,” Red Monk said.

The Hand of God, his head lolling and pupils expanding to make black his eyes, studied Finch. His gaze made Finch uncomfortable. He felt both warm and cold at the same time, his sweat making him shiver without stop. His teeth chattering, Finch pulled his hands close to his chest to stop their shaking.

Red Monk continued to speak, but his words became muted. The ceiling spun and the spicy scent of votive candles turned Finch’s stomach.

Want to read even more? Can’t wait seven days for the next installment? A Dead Place Calls is free for Amazon Kindle Unlimited members. Not a member? You can buy the ebook for only 99 cents.