A Dead Place Calls, part 6

The Grimdark Fantasy Quest Continues

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.

Garnett sifted through sacks on the table and a basket hidden in the wall behind a loose board. He pulled out the biggest loaf of bread he could find and a slab of cheese, from which he cut two pieces, offering one to Finch. Garnett uncorked a jug and took a long drink. Uncle moaned.

“Your cattle are poorly tended by the looks of the pathetic beasts,” Garnett said. “Starving and diseased, likely.”

“They’re a fine herd. Not one of them has the rot. Not a one,” Uncle said.

“To my point. How does a farmer of mud come by such fine animals? By the looks of this squalor and the smell of your breath, I believe you seldom rise from your flea-bitten sack prior to midday.”

“I’m a businessman. There’s good sense in my bones. Ask your questions and be—”

Garnett slapped Uncle, knocking him across the room and over a table, causing Finch to dive out of the way. Clay pots and jugs shattered, spilling the clear brown or red drink inside. Uncle untangled himself from the legs of the table, holding his face, stumbling. He knocked over more pots as he tried to stand. Falling against the far wall, he caught his balance, checking his bloodied mouth and teeth.

“What’s the meaning–”

“Where’s the boy?” Garnett clutched the hilt of his sword. His full height filled the room as he stalked toward Uncle.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Uncle babbled. Garnett punched him again, clutching his shirt to keep him on his feet.

“Your nephew. Where is he?”

Uncle heard the sound of Garnett’s blade drawn from its scabbard and began to weep.

“He ran off. In the night.”

“You lie.”

“I looked for the little wretch the next day. There was no finding him.”

Garnett pressed the tip of his sword against Uncle’s throat. Uncle gagged.

Uncle was a bad liar, and Garnett’s fury was like a storm. Finch feared Uncle’s throat would be slit before he would reveal what happened to the boy. Why did the fool not speak? Finch wondered what Uncle feared even more than Garnett.

Finch let drop from his hands the circlet of beads and black iron skull. Uncle saw the trinket and turned white, eyes bulging. He backed against the wall.

“I see your last day. It is nigh,” Finch said.

Uncle pointed at Garnett. “He’s a knight of the Maker and cannot kill an innocent.”

“You are no innocent,” Garnett scoffed. Finch motioned for Garnett to back away. Uncle trembled uncontrollably. The musky, sour smell of trickling urine filled the air.

“To die without reconciliation, is to wander emptiness forever,” Finch said. “Never finding rest.”

“I sold him to the northerners. Slavers. A wagon they had.”

“When?” Finch asked.

“Not four days ago,” Uncle said, weeping. “Please. It was for the best. I couldn’t feed him. We were both starving. His fits were terrible. Horrifying.” He fell to the ground, kneeling, groveling before Finch. A boil on his neck pulsated, no doubt matching the pounding of his heart. “You see, now we both eat. The boy and me. You might call it a paradox.”

“And what was your profit from this paradox?” Garnett asked.

“Silver. They paid me silver.” Turning to Finch, lowering his voice, he said, “The boy scared me. When he ranted the way he did, the sky changed colors. Darker it became.”

With his teeth, Garnett pulled the cork from the last unbroken jug and took a drink. “This drink – it satisfies your hunger?”

“That and my fine herd outside. Bought from neighbors on accounts they had no means of purchasing feed.”

“What road did they take?” Garnett said.

“North, I saw them go. And then on to Murholme it was to be or so I heard them say.”

“Murholme?” Garnett asked. He did not seem to believe anyone would take that way, even outlaw slavers. “Those mountains are a dead place, overrun with Broirnoir savages. Flesh-eaters they are. Every last one.”

“Aye,” Uncle said, shrinking.

Garnett collected the two warmest blankets he could find and the jug, corking it. “Keep watch,” he ordered Finch before exiting the shack.

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