A Dead Place Calls, part 4
A Quest Given
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.
“Do you hear me?“ a voice inside Finch’s head asked.
“Yes,” Finch replied without thinking.
“The end of days – is it near?“ the voice asked again. It was the Hand of God.
“Can you read my thoughts?“ Finch wondered. If the Hand knew his thoughts, he knew he was lying. Finch shook his hands and concentrated on the rattle of the chains, the cold of the iron against his skin, the dull ache of their weight pulling down against his bruised wrists. Every thought, he tried to clear from his head. Except for the thought that he was clearing his thoughts. He’ll know I’m hiding something. I’m doomed!
“The boy has visions and speaks in tongues. Take him to an altar of Helden. Discern prophecy from babble. Only to me shall you name the end day. Then claim your rich reward.” And then, the voice was silent. The chamber walls steadied and the golden dome held firm.
“. . . upon finding the boy, return him to us. Before any harm should come to him,” Red Monk said. Finch had missed much of what he had droned on about. There was a boy to find, but conflicting instructions to follow.
“You shall be accompanied by Sir Santill Garnett,” Red Monk said. “Veteran of the holy vanguard into Murholme. Lieutenant of the northern wards. And brother of the lost boy. May this errand of mercy be guided by his affection for the child and may the grace of God protect you from the demons that possess his soul.”
A tall man joined Finch and kneeled. His clothes were faded and tattered. He wore a leather chest plate and muddied boots, his weathered gloves matched his skin, scarred and cracked, by a life spent in harsh elements exposed to northern winds and the furnace of summer sun. He smiled without stop, a blank, numb grin that looked rehearsed, making Finch wonder what he was really thinking. His smile did not match his furrowed, brooding expression.
The tall man’s long red hair and beard had been combed and oiled. He held out his hands palms up in supplication to the Hand of God who was now busy with letters held for him by clerks. Mint leaves masked the scent of booze on Garnett’s breath but not that which exuded from his pores.
“A quest in service to the Hand of God! Today heretic, we both are blessed,” Garnett said, the voice from the carriage. A deserter’s yellow stain marked the left said of his face and neck.
Finch spent the night locked in a room only slightly larger than a closet. A mattress stuffed with straw and a chamber pot felt like luxuries after six nights in a dungeon. The click of the door being unlocked from the outside woke him.
A monk gave him woolen hose, a coarse shirt, and a plain brown robe. The shirt and robe were tight across his chest and gut, and too long for his legs and arms. His arms and legs were short and thin, and his torso was often likened to a barrel, sagging at its bottom.
“Are we too late for breakfast, brother?” Finch asked.
Without returning eye contact, the monk said, “Our food is unlikely to satisfy your carnal appetite. Flesh of the dead and boiled goat horns do not taint our table.”
“No goat horns, you say? Pity. Bacon and eggs will do well enough, thank you. And a spot of the Hand of God’s tea. It’s lovely. One might even call it divine.”
Finch was hungry but the monk did not care. Candle in hand and without saying another word, he led Finch down a darkened hall of stone and outside into a courtyard. Fog had rolled in that night and the sun had not yet risen. Two horses waited, one already bore a rider. With help, Finch mounted a horse. Monks locked his hands in manacles.
“The deserter doesn’t have the key, so you have no reason to beg him for freedom,” a voice said. It was Red Monk. He was even uglier at night. The flickering candle light cast shadows on his face, bloating the bags under his eyes and filling the pock marks on his face.
“Deserter. Heretic,” Red Monk said, addressing them both. “Find the boy. Bring him to me, and I will set you free.”
Deserter. Finch wondered what oath Garnett had broken. His head hung low, Garnett took the reins of Finch’s horse. Their horses slowly trotted toward an open gate.
“Where are we going?” Finch asked.
Garnett swayed in his saddle, his head lolling to and fro. As they passed a monk with a lantern, Finch saw Garnett frown. Garnett was in an awful spot, of that Finch was sure. The drunkard was haunted by empty barrels in the monastery’s wine cellar and an early rise.
“I said, ‘where are we going?’”
“That way,” Garnett grumbled, nodding at the road ahead.
“Obviously,” Finch said. “Tell me, when do we eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Finch was, but he knew that did not matter.
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