First Evil

By John White

"...A dark fantasy novel set in a world of disorder." - Kirkus Reviews

Finch Crushluck is going to be rich. Disguised as a Death Priest, he seeks a priceless amulet containing the blood of a dead god. Scams are never easy. And this one may take his life because the Doom Who Waits breathes still, imprisoned in the heart of a nightmare landscape of destruction and madness.

 

Finch is not alone in his quest. Seduced by the whispers of the Doom Who Waits, a holy man betrays his vows to obtain the amulet, a merchant captain delivers a gilded dirigible as ransom for her kidnapped daughter, and a giant risks the fate of the world to avenge the murder of his family.

 

Charlatan. Apostate. Fury. Brute.

 

They can save the world. Or hasten its doom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John White
• Release date: Apr 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988304418

John White

John White was a medical missionary with New Tribes Mission and later associate general secretary of the International Fellowship of Evangelical Students of Latin America. He served as associate professor of psychiatry at the University of Manitoba and also helped lead churches in Winnipeg and Vancouver. Before he died in 2002 he had written more than two dozen books including The Fight and Daring to Draw Near.

Book preview

For my son Johndiego who wanted to know what was going to happen next

FIRST EVIL

JOHN WHITE

75

FIRST EVIL

CHAPTER ONE

The corpse of Renthrax , son of General Lowthraxinor, lay on the stone slab. Skin pallid, only his lips retained the iron-black hue common to his people. Delicate, faint silver threads sealed Renthrax’s eyelids and his lips. The polished bronze rings of his armor gleamed in the flickering candle light. The hilt of a dagger, the blade still embedded deep in his chest, parted the braided strands of his red beard.

Lowthraxinor caressed his son’s cold brow, mustering a grim smile as he recalled the proudest moments of his son’s life. There was no need to hide the streams of his tears. His son was dead, and Lowthraxinor wept.

My lord, the tribunal has convened, Thartarus whispered, laying a comforting hand on Lowthraxinor’s shoulder to draw his attention. Every inch of Thartarus’s skin was covered with tattoos; their black ink, barely perceptible against his charcoal-gray skin, was an endless maze of Kormodgeon glyphs, gods, and gore spilled in the violence of battle.

All of them? Lowthraxinor asked, his eyes still locked on his son.

Every craven betrayer is there. Their court crier has announced the charges. Treason. Theft. Sorcery.

Charges punishable by death.

Thartarus nodded. They do not want a civil war. It is hoped that your confession will avert bloodshed. In exchange for your rank and sword, you will be granted exile. The tone of his voice mocked the very notion. Their armies ready themselves for battle against us.

Lowthraxinor kissed his son. He gently pressed his son’s unyielding chest. Lowthraxinor felt like he was pushing a boulder. The dagger held firm, like a spike pounded into stone.

Lowthraxinor’s shoulders were broad, like his son’s. He was nearly as wide as he was tall. Dark dwarfs—Kormodgeon, as they were also known—were a union of cousin races. Some were slight and thin. Some were savage, almost animal-like, with nary the wit to speak or read. Others were like him: warriors. With a heritage of strength and greatness, they were born to rule.

Their armor was large polished iron rings, their cloaks long strips of thin black leather. The flesh of the chest, neck, and legs was left exposed to let black mist burst from their pores in battle to confuse enemies.

Servants tended clay pots and glass jars arranged around Renthrax. Bloody pots held every organ that had been removed from his chest and abdomen, and glands dripping with the ink that made the Kormodgeon shadow mist. A clear tube connected a murky glass jar to an incision in his side, just below his arm. Kneeling near a jar of silver smoke, a servant pressed a bladder, pumping the smoke up the tube and into Renthrax. The tube crackled, burnt from the inside by glowing, angry orange embers and flickering white sparks. Some gas escaped. Lowthraxinor inhaled deeply, feeling the popping sizzle burn his nostrils and lungs. Today, either he would reclaim the future, or the Kormodgeon empire would burn along with the remains of his son.

The last wisp of smoke was pumped from the jar into Renthrax.

He is ready, my lord, an attendant said. He removed the tube from Renthrax. A burning brand cauterized the incision. Drops of molten bronze hardened, sealing the cut.

You have a final battle to fight before you can rest, Lowthraxinor whispered to his son. He kissed him one last time. Forgive me, my brave son.

Lowthraxinor closed his eyes and extended his arms as if he were floating in a pool. Attendants wrote glyphs on his face with gray ash. The glyphs told the story of his battles, of victories, and the death of his son at the hands of a betrayer. A cloak woven with scales of burnished steel was hung on his broad shoulders, the hem crashing to the ground like a coil of heavy chain dropped from the ceiling. The cloak wrapped around his chest, fastening below his throat. The scales of a hood drooped heavily down his back. Thartarus’s cloak was fashioned from the same steel scales. He and Lowthraxinor slapped each other’s shoulders, scowling. Thartarus’s black eyes lit up, bulging till they seemed ready to explode.

For your son! Thartarus said.

For the empire, Lowthraxinor said. He lifted his son from the stone slab.

Gothic spires and long, wicked spears extended from a buoyed dirigible. Heavy chains secured metal plates to balloons confined together by a web of thick rope. Smaller balloons were corralled in tangled nets between larger balloons. Everywhere there was the smell of burning coal. Black smoke belched from furnaces located at the rear of the airship, behind the carriage.

South, beyond the twisted peaks of the Gnarled Fingers, was the Null—a vast basin of barren land smothered by a swirling morass of clouds known as the Wasting.

The wyrm guardian of First’s tomb is dead. His carcass is hauled to Ducor’s Gorge this very moment, Thartarus said as he and Lowthraxinor exited the nightmare zeppelin.

And the amulet? Lowthraxinor asked.

Still inside the beast. Those who have tried to pry it from the wyrm died.

The being known as First awakens. His sorcery is death. None are to touch the remains of the dragon.

I will send word, my lord, Thartarus said, bowing.

Dark dwarf soldiers lined the gangway plank leading from the dirigible to a landing carved on the side of a cliff wall. A whistle blew. Arms! the contingent sergeant yelled.

Halberds sliced the air in deadly, swooping unison. Carrying his son, Lowthraxinor marched across the gangway. Thartarus followed, one step behind.

The sharpest blade tastes first blood. Glory awaits us, my brothers. Cravens, beware. The blood of traitors will baptize a new age! Thartarus called out. As punctuation, the butts of the halberds pounded the gangway. The echo scattered condors from their hillside perches; a flock of the giant carrion birds soared overhead.

They sense a feast awaits, Thartarus said. The cliffside landing looked down into deep chasms hidden in mist. A shallow set of stairs led to the flattened mountain top. There, the cold, squat form of the Temple of the Smith waited.

Wind blew from the south, putrid and warm. It was the Wasting. Lowthraxinor felt his skin crawl and his head swim. Human witchcraft had summoned this storm of chaos to destroy the Kormodgeon. Like the thundering hammer of a primordial god, the Wasting corrupted and destroyed everything it touched, leaving mockeries of life and twisted realities in its wake that defied reason and the laws of nature. To behold the destruction of the Wasting was to invite madness into the mind.

But the Wasting would soon be made to serve Lowthraxinor. Today, he would restore the empire and take everything that was rightfully his. Tomorrow, he would harness the Wasting, tame the winds, and control the tides. Anyone in his path would be swept away.

The interior of the temple was a shallow basin, a great circular hall large enough for hundreds of dark dwarfs. Today, there were only eight: haggard, scarred generals and perfumed and bejeweled bankers—the ragged remnants of an empire that had once spanned the world from its deepest places to its tallest mountain peaks. The Wasting and the encroachment of the surface dwellers had taken their toll, as had infighting and avarice.

Evidence of the Kormodgeon decline was obvious. Floor lamps that had reflected light from furnaces hundreds of feet below were dim or dark. Shoddy repairs of large cracks in the ceiling had begun to chip away. The tapestries depicting the works of Karr the World Smith and the glorious achievements of his greatest servants had faded and were dotted black with mold. Reliefs carved into the wall were worn and barely recognizable.

The Kormodgeon eight were old. Twisted and deformed by contact with the unpredictable fury of the Wasting, they clung to walking sticks or canes.

On a dais at the bottom of the basin, High Priest Droth stood guard next to Karr’s anvil, whispering to the eight seated before him. The leather straps of his robes were edged with brass and pewter; lines of gold edged his miter. White gold rings and blood-red rubies adorned his fingers. He held a smith’s hammer; a ceremonial thing, its head was crystal and finely etched with Kormodgeon glyphs. The hammer’s elongated shaft was a gilded tribute to the wealth of the earth’s deepest mines. This was no tool for hammering stubborn rocks or metal spikes.

Two priests pushed a bench into place behind Droth, fluffing the bench’s velvet pillow. Droth sat as the doors burst open, banging against the walls. Lowthraxinor strode into the chamber. Temple guards parted to let him and Thartarus pass and then lifted a heavy timber into place, locking the door. The waiting eight turned their backs toward Lowthraxinor in unison. More than one hissed.

High General Lowthraxinor, Protector of the Empire, slayer of every scourge and the keeper of our destiny. He is the World Smith’s fury. He is Karr’s retribution. Hell on earth for all enemies of the Kormodgeon Empire, Thartarus proclaimed.

Lowthraxinor did not break stride. Still carrying his son, he shouldered Droth’s attendants out of his way and strode onto the dais.

Droth tilted his hammer in the direction of Lowthraxinor. Murmurs came from the Kormodgeon in the room. Harsh admonishments were hurled in the direction of Lowthraxinor. Kneel, they demanded.

Sacrilege, one claimed in protest.

You will bow, Lowthraxinor, Droth said.

I will not. I bear my dead son. Though his weight is no burden for me, I cannot endure the treachery that led to his murder.

Kneel, Lowthraxinor! a Kormodgeon called from the row of eight.

Silence, cravens! Thartarus yelled.

Get up, old man, Lowthraxinor commanded Droth.

You have no right! one of the eight said, placing himself between Lowthraxinor and Droth. He was a general, as indicated by his polished steel ring mail; his perfumes and the oil in his beard suggested leisure and wealth. Thartarus sneered, pushing him aside. The temple guards raised their halberds and charged. The swung their blades in wide, sweeping arcs. The blades stopped at either side of Lowthraxinor’s neck. He did not flinch.

Up! Lowthraxinor yelled at Droth.

Droth bowed his head gently. He stood, motioning the guards to back away. Removing the pillow, he stepped aside for Lowthraxinor to lay Renthrax on the bench. Then Droth genuflected, gliding his hand slowly over Renthrax.

Your sorrow is felt by an empire this day, Lowthraxinor. It is a loss we all share, Droth said. He turned to the anvil, tapped its iron bulk with his crystal hammer, and began to pray. It was a low, guttural chant in the Kormodgeon’s ancient language. Few joined the chant, for it was a language forgotten even by other dark dwarfs.

Lowthraxinor knew the prayer. And he said the words aloud in the contemporary tongue of his people, turning to face the gathering that circled him, glaring until they turned away.

...And to know the face of thine enemy, and to crush it under the blow of the hammer. To fuel the fire of the forge, and the light of the flames shall reveal the truth.

Droth too now spoke in the contemporary tongue: Karr. World Smith. I beseech you, take the vessel of your brave and loyal servant to your forge. So that he may be remade from this death—

From this murder! Lowthraxinor interrupted. This was not death by honor. Nor was his life lost in glorious battle defending the empire. This was murder. Treachery. Betrayal!

You pain us, Lowthraxinor, with your weeping and now with your baseless accusations, said a fat dark dwarf dressed in fine silk, hardly the garb of a warrior. His beard and mustache were waxed, his eyebrows neatly trimmed to the width of a fine line drawn by a pencil. We eight here. He paused for effect. Our loyalty is beyond reproach. Not one of us is on trial this day.

Have I named you betrayer, Udrow, money changer? Lowthraxinor asked.

When you hurl baseless accusations, you soil the name of this temple and everyone here. Oh, great general, leader of great losses, Udrow the silken said.

Lowthraxinor had to restrain Thartarus from attacking.

That’s right, Udrow said. Call off your mad dog who fights with no purpose other than lust. Heedlessly, you race into battle. Asking more from us. More lives. More steel. More time. Let me tell you, Lowthraxinor, there is nothing more for us to give.

What have any of you given? Nothing. You are soft. All of you. Lowthraxinor paced across the dais, finally stopping and coming face-to-face with Udrow. Your bastards, great in number and girth, are fatter even than your purse.

We have given gold, General. No more. There is none left to be wasted for your adventures.

Profiteer! Thartarus said. There is always enough money when you stand to make some for yourself.

Yes, Udrow said, nodding. There are miners who dig deep into the earth and pull out iron. Smiths who forge armor and spears. Craftsmen who build ships. Artists to glaze the urns for the ash of the dead you bring home. They do not work for free. And there is no money left to pay them. No more, Lowthraxinor. No more pointless charges into the Wasting. You are done.

Pointless? Lowthraxinor asked. Tell me. Was my son’s death pointless?

Enough, Lowthraxinor. Let your grief go with him into the furnaces. There let it turn to ash. Spare the beloved Renthrax your sobbing.

He was ambushed. The surface dwellers knew his galley was coming. They found him in the thick mists of the Wasting. They found him with no vision beyond the rails of their own airship. They knew precisely where he was because his location was sent to them by a traitor.

What evidence do you have of this, General Lowthraxinor? Droth asked.

I tracked the human army and killed everyone in its company. Among them, I found a Kormodgeon spy, hiding under a pile of dead humans. He bore a resemblance to this one who stands before me now. Fat. Afraid.

Udrow clenched his teeth, and the blubber of his double chin trembled as sweat stained his silk robes. Lies of a mind warped by the Wasting. Too long have you spent your waking hours in that madness.

What words did this Kormodgeon speak? Droth asked.

There were no last words. The sloth wet himself before I slit his throat. Lowthraxinor glared at Udrow, who shook, clearly trying to restrain an outburst. I am willing to forget this treachery. To let it die with the ashes of my son for the good of the empire. I have fought for and will continue to fight for the empire until my last breath. I do not need Udrow’s coin. I can stop the Wasting and drive the humans into submission.

How can you stop the Wasting? a dark dwarf near Udrow asked. It is beyond the power of mortal beings to control.

No. It is nothing more than human sorcery. The Wasting was made; therefore, it can be unmade.

Droth shook his head. The humans did not make this terror. They have suffered no less than we.

So they would have you believe, Thartarus said.

By what means do you endeavor to stop this apocalypse, General Lowthraxinor? an attendant priest asked. His robes differed from those worn by Droth, though the priests’ pewter stoles were similar. Underneath the attendant priest’s plain brown cloak, there was a bulk—perhaps some deformity, a hunched shoulder or the like. We have studied it. Consulted sages and searched the libraries. It cannot be stopped.

Be seated, Pendren. Droth motioned the priest to return to his station. The Wasting is a threat to everyone and everything. All the races must unite to stop it. We have one mutual enemy—the end of all days. The humans must be made to work with us.

The eight nodded and stamped their feet.

Offer no wax to the executioner before he drops the guillotine, your holiness, Lowthraxinor said. What you propose is an invitation to genocide. The Wasting is a plague set upon us by the human butchers. There is only one way to stop it. Only one. Release him to me.

Stunned silence from some. Others quietly asked, Who?

The being known as ‘First.’ Release him to me. He alone has the power to unmake this calamity.

First. The Unmaker. The Destroyer. He cannot be set free, Droth said. His is an evil too great to endure.

Let me save the empire, Lowthraxinor said.

I cannot, Droth said quietly.

You cannot or will not? Lowthraxinor pointed at Droth in accusation.

I cannot and will not. There is no difference. To put the key that unlocks the bane of Karr in your custody would be a dereliction of my duty. It would be heresy. I will not unleash destruction upon our people. And let me say this to you, Lowthraxinor. Do not venture to First’s tomb. It is guarded by a terrible beast. All who go there are killed.

The wyrm is dead, Thartarus said.

The prison is left unguarded. Give me the Time Spike to enslave First before the humans win his favor and unleash his wrath upon our people, Lowthraxinor said.

Droth silently bowed his head.

Lowthraxinor stared at Droth. He lowered his voice accusingly. You cannot. You cannot give me the Time Spike because you sold it to the humans.

Traitor! Thartarus accused Droth.

It was not sold. It’s still here, Pendren said, shrinking below the bulk of his hunchback. Droth gave him a bitter stare, a look that suggested the attendant priest had revealed a forbidden secret.

So it is here. Below this temple still? Lowthraxinor asked. You swear it?

Yes, yes. The Time Spike is here, Pendren said. You see...his high holiness did not betray us.

Will you give it to me? Lowthraxinor asked, bowing his head, turning to face his son. Thartarus circled behind the guards.

I will not, Droth said. These are desperate days, Lowthraxinor. You know this perhaps better than anyone here. But this is a tribunal. That is our singular purpose here today. You face charges. Most serious charges. A consensus was forged to spare your life as recompense for your dutiful, loyal service. Stand down. Surrender your sword and title and accept exile. Or face the only possible verdict of this tribunal and its punishment: execution.

For the empire I do this, Lowthraxinor said. There were nods among the eight, who believed Lowthraxinor had made a wise choice and accepted exile. A sigh of relief was exhaled.

With a grunt, Lowthraxinor pulled free the dagger from his son’s chest. White gas burst from the wound, quickly filling the room with sizzling silver embers and sparks.

Lowthraxinor hurled the dagger across the dais at a guard; the blade sank deep into his chest as a fine mist of black ink sprayed from his pores, creating a double image of himself. The guard flailed his arms wildly and dropped his halberd. His ink double took a defensive stance and then dissolved.

Before the halberd hit the ground, Thartarus caught it. In one fluid motion, he decapitated the other guard, sweeping through the guard’s ink cloud double. The attack came so swiftly the second guard still bore an expression of shock as his head rolled down the steps to the dais.

Lowthraxinor and Thartarus pulled their hoods over their heads and spun their steel cloaks in wide, circular motions. They both dropped to one knee. Their cloaks fell around them like tents collapsing in a downpour of rain. Each scale clicked together, transforming the cloaks into cocoons, tightly sealing them inside.

A burning white cloud swept fiercely across the room as if blown by a gust of wind. Lowthraxinor heard the sizzle of flesh, stiffened bodies falling to the ground, and desperate screams of pain caused by a searing fire that could not be extinguished.

When he sensed that the flames had died down, Lowthraxinor blindly found a clasp inside his shell and flipped it open. The links of his cloak loosened, and the scales fell into place behind him as he stood. A second shell of metal scales opened, and Thartarus emerged.

The last wisps of white smoke swirled, drooping heavily and lapping at the floor. Every member of the Kormodgeon council of eight was burned almost to the bone. A scent lingered, like burnt garlic but richer and deeper, something from a fetid swamp.

On the dais, a burned figure clutched a corroded staff. The crystal hammer was discolored and marred by the white fire.

Lowthraxinor picked up the staff and broke it over his knee. A new consensus has been forged, he said, dropping the broken remains. He took one last look at the now-unrecognizable remains of his son. Ignite Karr’s forge, my son. Let it burn for me until I join you.

There was a sharp sound of metal clicking. Behind Lowthraxinor and Thartarus, the links of a third cocoon of burnished metal loosened and fell open. The cloak recoiled behind its wearer. Pendren stood; the bulk hidden below his raiment had been the metal cloak that was now draped behind his back.

Pendren knelt before Lowthraxinor. My lord, he said, bowing his head.

Move quickly, new high priest of the empire, Lowthraxinor said.

Pendren took the crystal head of the hammer that had been wielded by Droth and tapped the anvil seven times, chanting softly. As he did so, the dais rotated and sank below the floor.

As their descent slowed to a gentle stop, the dim orange glow of floor portholes illuminated a hallway hewn from stone. At its end, a stone alcove waited.

Follow me, great one, Pendren said, bowing again.

Pendren was not far ahead, and yet Lowthraxinor felt the need to hurry. He could not. The room spun, and the floor felt like it was dropping below his feet, as if he had missed a step walking down a flight of stairs. The rough, uneven walls of the tunnel undulated in and out as though the mountain was breathing. The alcove retreated deeper into the darkness. Lowthraxinor proceeded down the stone tunnel but came no closer to the alcove.

Thartarus vanished. Then, he was at Lowthraxinor’s side, his face blank, confused, and disoriented, absent any sense of recognition.

It is the sorcery of the Time Spike at work, my lord. Pendren’s voice was now behind them. Clear your mind, and think only of the next step you take. Forget what has passed. Do not concern yourself with your intended destination.

Let us go, Lowthraxinor said. Thartarus looked lost. Without counting his steps, Lowthraxinor looked up; the alcove was suddenly before him. Inside it, a hollow copper tube about four feet long floated in the air. Purple runes etched on its surface glowed. One end was jagged and broken, the other smooth and round. Before Lowthraxinor decided to take it from the alcove, the Time Spike had already found its way into his hand.

Behold, the Time Spike, Pendren said. It is both the key and lock that holds captive the being known as First.

Lowthraxinor gripped the Time Spike with both hands. In his grip, it elongated. Its surface was fluid, like molten copper pouring into stone molds. A black null aura surrounded the rod, swallowing all light. A new empire... he said at last.

Your new empire, Thartarus proclaimed.

The liars. The hypocrites. They were nearly the death of us all. I shall not suffer deceit of any kind.

Indeed not, my lord, Pendren said.

Not even from you! Lowthraxinor thrust the jagged end of the Time Spike into Pendren’s chest. A duplicate image of the dark dwarf priest appeared in black mist, too late to distract Lowthraxinor from his intended target. Ribs cracked and parted as Lowthraxinor rotated the Time Spike, lifting the priest off the floor. Betrayer of your brothers. You did this deed out of lust for power. Your time as high priest has come to a swift end, traitor.

Lowthraxinor yanked free the Time Spike. Pendren remained floating in the air, blood filling his throat and choking him. Droplets fell from his mist double as it vanished. Pendren gasped for air. He was dying but could never die. He would remain there, frozen in this moment, floating in a permanent state of near death. Lowthraxinor cleaned the Time Spike by wiping the blood on Pendren’s robes.

Great plumes of smoke rose from clefts in the mountaintop, vents for the Kormodgeon city below. A battle had been waged and quickly won. Lowthraxinor strode out of the temple, Thartarus at his side. His troops, some bloodied, knelt along the bridge that led to his zeppelin. Nearby, condors perched on outcroppings of rocks, blinking away the sting of smoke, waiting to enter the temple. Waiting to feed on the dead.

Your sword, High General, a sergeant said, returning Lowthraxinor’s blade. Members of the militia have surrendered or been put to the blade. The throne and your coronation await.

They will have to wait, Lowthraxinor said. I have a god to enslave.

CHAPTER TWO

It was as if a titan’s plow had bisected the desert waste. The tip of that same plow had cleaved some poor bastard from behind, leaving his back deeply concave. Finch Crushluck found the unfortunate chap sprawled face down; flies buzzed in and out of his mouth and ears, avoiding the mutilated parts of his body as if his flesh were toxic. Finch waved the flies away, only to have them quickly return after he flipped the body over.

Finch recoiled and wiped his hands on his trousers. Maker save me, he said, spitting on the ground between him and the corpse.

The dead man’s face and the entire front of his body were bruised purple and dark green. His arms and legs extended from his body, stretched to almost unnatural lengths. He had the typical death bloat, and he reeked like spoiled meat left in a warm place.

Water, the dead man gasped. A sip of water, Finch.

Finch screamed and turned to run—straight into his grinning friend, Syn, who had sneaked up from behind.

Horse’s ass...I didn’t hear you coming, Finch said, catching his breath.

Water, Syn said again using the same raspy voice, and then laughed. He poked the corpse with a long wooden rod.

Don’t touch him. Finch pulled Syn back. Bad luck.

Other than the bruising, there were no visible wounds. It looked like the poor sod had been born with long arms and legs. His face was pinched, and his eyes were on the sides of his head.

Kin to big a fish, wouldn’t you say? Syn asked, poking the corpse again with the rod. Finch knew better. He kept his distance from corpses tainted by the Wasting. The hourglass that hung from the other end of Syn’s rod bounced up and down as he roughly probed the corpse. Look here. The poor fellow’s clothes were melted right into his skin like a tattoo. You can still make out the sun. And rays of light. He’s another one of those pilgrims.

A real true believer, Finch deadpanned.

Syn rested the rod against his shoulder and wiped the sweat from his brow. The hourglass dangled just below the rim of the ravine. Overhead, a dust storm howled.

He won’t do, Finch said. Nervously, he tapped Syn’s hourglass to verify the sand was pouring steadily down, not up. Sand clogging or reversing course, or glass twisting or breaking, were signs the Wasting was near. Better bury him before the rest of them find him. Let’s make quick work of it. I don’t want to be out here much longer.

Syn scratched his head, dust flaking off his scalp. Finch could not tell whether his friend was dirty or just looked dirty. The pockmarks and scars on Syn’s face and bald head were craters of rusty-orange desert grime. And now, with dust clouds closing in overhead, he was tan. Syn was a chameleon, his skin the perfect camouflage. He could hide and never be found, and yet he chewed his nails without stop and looked over his shoulder every other second to make sure they were alone.

We bring him back, and you make him talk, Syn said. If I can’t think of anything smart for his dead soul to say, you can blame it on the Wasting. Devil’s balls. Look what it did to this poor bloke.

That excuse is getting old, my friend, Finch said.

You want to go back to Arcatia? Syn asked, frowning. Clearly he did not.

Neither did Finch.

Arcatia is a powder keg waiting to explode. Overrun with refugees and religious zealots. And the only things worse than refugees and zealots are refugees and zealots with no money. A city with tall buildings and broken streets cannot stand. Finch cinched up his pants out of habit. A better fit, he noted. Barely enough room to stick his thumbs between his pants and stomach. Membership in the scavenger caravan had its privileges, chief among them food. Out here, on the edge of the Null Lands, he was filling in again nicely, in a right healthy manner.

Syn approached the body. Still afraid to touch the deformed corpse, Finch backed away. Don’t go near him.

Stop worrying. The Wasting is an as good excuse as any. And this one has the Wasting all over him. Syn pulled the corpse from the dirt, ready to lift him. Give me a hand, mate.

Better to say we found nothing and turned back on account of the storm.

No, it ain’t, Syn said, dragging the corpse along. We can’t show up with nothing but the sand in our boots. Some of the caravanners are starting to cast a certain look at us.

What a suspicious, untrusting bunch they are, the whole lot of them, Finch said.

A gust of wind loudly blew overhead, sending both men to the ground.

Whole lot of who, Death Speaker? a voice asked from behind them. It was Wold, one of the caravan leaders. His squinting eyes and jutting lower lip gave him a permanent expression of suspicion and doubt. Now he sneered, satisfied after catching Finch in a lie. There was no knowing how much he had heard.

Finch and Syn got to their feet. You, your friends. Us. All of us. The caravan, Finch said. What an untiring bunch we are. The whole lot of them.

Us, Syn added.

That’s not what you said. Wold stood eye to eye with Finch. Too close.

Instinct signaled Finch to back down. Run away, live longer. He swallowed hard and held his ground. He had to. He was supposed to be a death priest, after all. Even in the face of danger, when stronger men went for their daggers, a death priest did not blink. Life was to be feared, death welcomed.

I know my date, Wold, Finch said. It is not this day. Do not reach for your blade. Unless you really mean to use it. And when you do, I will see it coming long before you pull it from your belt. Not bad, Finch thought. Not bad. And Wold had not even noticed him shaking.

Mates, let’s get back to business here and be on our way, Syn said, stepping between them. He directed Wold’s attention to the dead pilgrim. We found one, right here. In the bottom of a Null gorge.

No. He won’t do. Won’t do at all, Finch said, glaring at Syn.

Why not? Wold growled.

Finch removed a silver chain from under his dusty tunic. Hanging from the chain was an iron box. Finch lifted the lid of the box, allowing the iron skull inside to peer out from its symbolic coffin. He waved the boxed skull in circles over the dead man as he shook his head, admonishing the two men.

This one will not do, he said emphatically. Look at his melon. It has been squeezed. Crushed. His head! That’s the same place he held his thoughts. The same place I presume you hold yours, Caravan Captain.

It’s the soul you want, ain’t it? Still in his heart after the body vessel dies, Wold said. Your words, if I recollect.

He was tainted by the Wasting. To be killed by the Wasting isn’t death.

No? Are there other sorts of death other than being dead?

Somewhere in the sky, far away or maybe two feet distant, or perhaps deep in the roots of his teeth, there was a whining sound of metal grating. Finch felt a sudden rush of apprehension. The world was slipping away.

Wold must have felt it, too. He ducked to the ground and checked the wooden box attached to the end of his pole. He wound the dial on its front, causing an internal spring to coil. The dial slowly turned, clicking with each steady movement.

The speed of the clicking slowed and then accelerated. Finally, it began clicking at a regular pace. All three men breathed a silent sigh of relief.

"I’ll hear no more of your excuses, Death Priest. Wold uttered the last words with particular scorn. Give me your prods. You two lug the dead bloke to camp."

The wagons formed a circle around a campfire at the bottom of a low ridge. Poles had been planted deep into the ground around the perimeter of the camp and the grazing oxen. Hourglasses hung from the tops of the poles and shifted gently in the cool evening breeze. A watchman flipped spent hourglasses and turned the dials of clickers, listening carefully for the steady sound of each spring as it uncoiled. The last wagons to arrive were pushed into place, bouncing lightly over the rocky ground. Loads were light, stores nearly empty.

The moon was high, blocked by a low layer of pregnant clouds. Rain was coming. For weeks, rain had been coming, but it never came. There was the occasional splattering of heavy drops, but no steady downpour, not even a drizzle to wash the dusty land and feed the dry grass.

The deformed corpse of the pilgrim was laid on a table near the campfire. A few caravan peasants gathered. Most stayed away, heads down, whispering. Finch was losing his audience. Tonight’s commune with the dead had to be good.

The small crowd that had gathered to watch the death speaker pushed for a closer look, covering their noses. Their clothes, like their skin and hair, were dusty. The more fortunate had shoes or at least rags to wrap around their feet. All were underfed, even to the point of stomach bloat. For some, a blank stare with an occasional blink was the only sign of life.

Wold removed the blanket covering the pilgrim.

Look at him! Look at his face! someone shrieked. Women gasped. Men spit and traced a cross inside a circle on their foreheads, the sign of the Maker, to ward themselves from evil.

Finch held up his arms. He wore the black robes and scarlet stole of a death priest.

His day was known, Finch proclaimed. One at a time, he stared at each member of the wagon caravan until he had their full attention or they were too afraid to look at him or the corpse.

Even the Wasting must first consult the names in Helden’s Book of Death before taking a life in this wasteland! Has your name been written in Helden’s Book? Finch searched the crowd. Where was Syn?

Finch cleared his throat, struggling to think of what to say next. This pilgrim of the church of the Maker, a beacon of light in this world, was lost to the darkness. Yes, taken. But death is not the end of life. Finch almost snorted. That had sounded better in his head than it did spoken aloud. Every one of us has a date. A date with his or her—pausing for effect and then singling out a particularly attractive lass with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes—death! She jumped. Finch caressed her shoulder as he passed, trying to comfort her. Her skin was so soft.

Get on it with it, priest! Wold mumbled. No sermons. What’s out there for us? What does this one know?

What secrets does he know? Hidden treasure? The location of food? Water safe to drink? Where is Syn? Curse him! Finch paced around the table, pretending to look at the corpse, all the while searching the crowd. He had to stall until his ventriloquist partner arrived.

"The dead feel our grief. They desire not to leave us wanting. Helden, God of Death, welcomes the departed to the afterlife. He