With Fingers Gray and Cold

By E.W. Pierce

Evil won't be swindled.

In the frozen lands beyond the edge of civilization, charlatan Marten the Magnificent swindles villagers of their valuables in exchange for superstitious charms. But when faced with a true monster, Marten is forced to rely on his own useless trinkets, or risk losing his life.

A dark fantasy short story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.W. Pierce
• Release date: Jun 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310453748

E.W. Pierce

E.W. Pierce is the writing handle of Eric Pierce. Raised on a steady diet of Star Wars, cowboy movies with his great-grandfather, and lots of pretend, he developed an early interest in the making of make-believe. Eric discovered the fantasy genre via the Dragonlance novels, and shortly thereafter, was introduced to the tabletop roleplaying game Dungeons & Dragons. His world was never the same. Eric writes Fantasy and the occasional Science Fiction or Horror story. He lives in Michigan with his wife and their two children. You can follow him at http://ewpierce.com, where he blogs about fantasy books, roleplaying games, and other geeky pursuits.

Book preview

WITH FINGERS GRAY AND COLD

E.W. Pierce

Smashwords Edition. Copyright © 2014 E.W. Pierce All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

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The painted wagon rattled down the overgrown path that served for roads in that part of the world, moaning and shambling like a dead thing newly returned to life. Old, weathered ruts traced dark tracks across the frozen road, deep as the lines on a hag’s face. Naked, emaciated trees crowded the path, skeletal limbs dragging across the wagon’s roof and scratching at the faded words written along the sides in gold - Marten the Magnificient’s Traveling Emporium.

Marten sat hunched under the roof’s lip, a lean man wrapped in a thin blanket, the reins limp in his gloved hand. A faded blue scarf snaked out from the neck of his overcoat, wrapping around his ears and nose and mouth. Long, dark hair streaked with white spilled out from under the top hat, falling into his eyes and brushing his shoulders.

Gods, but it was cold. Cold enough to kill, were a man not cautious. Northpoint was not a place to travel lightly. But one didn’t sell useless trinkets and empty cures as long as Marten had without a head chock full of caution. Marten knew the stories of Northpoint and had thought himself prepared, but the unrelentingly vicious cold had taken him by surprise. At least his feet were warm. Baron, his old dog, laid coiled across his boots like a pile of shaggy furs.

The pony trudged on, head bent to the task, breath billowing out in short gusts. The world was still save the steady stomp of hooves, the crack of ice under wheel, the groan and clatter of the wagon. Inside, vials gently clinked together rhythmically with the echo of empty promise.

He came upon the homesteads furthest from