A Dead Place Calls, part 5
More grimdark, gritty epic fantasy
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.
Like Garnett, the ride to Lahrburgh was gray and sullen, and completely devoid of sound. The mist remained, heavy and cold. Finch’s traveling robe became damp, causing him to shiver. The road devolved into a rutted strip of mud cutting through a field of yellow weeds. Each bump was more painful than the last for his bottom. The pungent rank of manure, wet and warm, suggested farms were near, and a chance to dismount and stretch legs unaccustomed to riding.
Finch and Garnett were soon greeted by the blank stare of cattle from behind the splintered posts of a crooked fence. Steam rose off red and black hides notched by thick ribs and spines. Nestled together for warmth, they nuzzled the barren dirt ground, hoping for grass.
Up ahead, smoke rose from the chimney of a shack made of mismatched planks of wood and stones held together by clumps of dry weeds and clay.
“Where are we?” Finch asked, his nose plugged. When he coughed, phlegm rumbled in his chest.
“The last known home of the boy, his uncle,” Garnett said.
“Don’t you mean ‘our’ uncle?”
“The farmer is no kin to me.” Garnett dismounted, and then helped Finch down. He strapped nose bags to the horses and let them wander the yard.
Bowed posts supported the shack’s front porch. Dead crows and the skins of possum and squirrels hung from the roof, either dinner or wards against evil spirits. Garnett pounded on the door, splintering wood rot planks off the hinges.
“In the name of Phillip IX, Hand of God, Maker of all things seen and known, open the door,” Garnett said.
Finch heard the loud rearranging of furniture or boxes, shuffling footsteps across a creaking floor, and then a voice.
“How do I know you’re not a bandit?” the voice inside asked.
“Does a bandit knock? Open the door.” The yellow mark on Garnett’s face turned red as his impatience grew. Finally, the door opened. A thread-bare curtain was pulled away by a swollen hand.
“What do you want then?” asked the man who Finch believed to be the boy’s uncle. His hair was greasy and knotted. The gray of his beard was brown around his mouth, as were his fingernails. He was a smoker of wild tobacco, its bitter scent filled the shack.
“Answers. But first we’ll take the warmth of your fire and what food you have to offer.”
“Holy men have holes in their stomachs I’ve learned. Your questions won’t be long in the asking, I hope.”
“That depends on your answers,” Garnett said. “Let us in.”
Uncle rolled his eyes and drew close the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He sneered at the yellow stain as Garnett ducked his head to enter the shack. Turning to Finch, he said, “And who are you, the coward’s keeper?”
Finch had forgotten his manacled hands were covered by the long sleeves of his robe. His hands could either be bound or locked in prayer. Was there a difference he wondered.
“I am a priest,” Finch said, sniffling. “On a quest of great importance.”
Uncle, unimpressed, stepped away from the door to admit Finch. He closed the door and stomped his feet. “Great import no doubt. Ask your questions, and be off with you both. And you,” pointing at Finch, “keep your distance if you got the fever.”
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