Hallowed Ground Read online

  HALLOWED GROUND

  By Steven Savile & David Niall Wilson

  First Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press & Macabre Ink Digital

  Copyright 2010 by Steven Savile & David Niall Wilson

  Cover Art by Robert Sammelin / Cover Design by Stan Tremblay

  LICENSE NOTES:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  OTHER CROSSROAD TITLES BY DAVID NIALL WILSON:

  NOVELS:

  Ancient Eyes

  Deep Blue

  Sins of the Flash

  The Orffyreus Wheel

  Darkness Falling

  The Mote in Andrea's Eye

  On the Third Day

  The Second Veil

  Heart of a Dragon

  Stargate Atlantis – SGA-15 – Brimstone (With Patricia Lee Macomber)

  Vintage Soul

  NOVELLAS:

  Roll Them Bones

  The Preacher's Marsh

  The Not Quite Right Reverend Cletus J. Diggs & The Currently Accepted Habits of Nature

  'Scuse Me, While I Kiss the Sky

  COLLECTIONS:

  The Fall of the House of Escher & Other Illusions

  Defining Moments

  A Taste of Blood & Roses

  Spinning Webs & Telling Lies

  The Whirling Man& Other Tales of Pain, Blood, and Madness

  Joined at the Muse

  UNABRIDGED AUDIOBOOKS:

  Roll Them Bones / Deep Blue / The Orffyreus Wheel / The Not Quite Right Reverend Cletus J. Diggs & The Currently Accepted Habits of Nature / Heart of a Dragon / On the Third Day / This is My Blood

  OTHER CROSSROAD TITLES BY STEVEN SAVILE:

  NOVELS:

  Laughing Boy's Shadow

  The Last Angel

  The Sufferer's Song

  UNABRIDGED AUDIOBOOKS:

  The Forgetting Wood – Narrated by Ian Stuart

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  CHAPTER ONE

  They came in the night with their creak-wheeled wagons and patchwork tents, rolling down through the gulch and up the other side to pitch camp. In Rookwood, they called it 'Dead man's Gulch,' and in Rookwood, names were important. If you walked too far through that God-forsaken, dust-drowned ditch, you were bound to drag your boots through bones. If you felt something sharp dig into your heel, it could be a tooth taking a last bite of something hot and living. The Deacon stood in silent shadows watching their progress, occasionally glancing up into the pale, inadequate light of the waning moon.

  He was a tall man, gaunt and pale. His suit was dark, and despite the fact they traveled through the desert, he wore a long, sweeping coat even darker than the suit. His hair was long, trailing down his back, dancing when the wind caressed it and dangling over the collar of his coat like thick moss. His eyes were chips of gray ice, emotionless and cold.

  The scouts had come to him two days back. They'd found a location that suited his needs, not too close to the town, sheltered, with water nearby. It was surrounded on two sides by rocky crags and bordered at its back by the gulch. The Deacon timed their arrival to occur at night. He preferred the moonlight. Those with cause to ride out of town far enough – hunters and trappers – could watch the sunset over barren, forgotten ground. When it rose again, curious eyes would see tents glistening in the sun. There was no breeze, had been no breeze for days, so the canvas wouldn't flap in the wind. It would look like a mirage to any who drew near enough to see it, and that suited The Deacon just fine.

  His wagon was the first to cross the gulch, and as the horses dragged it up the long, dusty incline he fell into step with the front wheels and swung up beside the driver. Sanchez held the reigns lightly, but his knuckles went suddenly tight with tension as The Deacon settled into the seat. Sanchez was an older man. He’d come up as a boy from Mexico, and had traveled many long roads.

  "Not much farther," he said. His gaze remained locked on the road ahead, and the tone of his voice was carefully neutral.

  The Deacon was silent. Behind them, the other wagons struggled to follow. Some were pulled by horses, others by mules, and still others couldn't manage the crossing without their passengers crawling out like rats from sinking ships to push and pull. They might as well not have existed, for all the attention The Deacon spared them.

  They entered the camp area and circled once. Sanchez made no move to stop; he waited. Eventually, on the second circuit of that open space, The Deacon grunted, and they rolled to a halt. From where they sat the moon was just visible between two rocky crags. It cast a beam of silver light that fell across the wagon, slicing it in half.

  "Here," The Deacon said.

  Sanchez hopped down and disappeared toward the rear of the wagon. The Deacon sat still as a wooden Indian and watched the first of the following wagons enter the clearing. They crawled in like vermin. They squabbled briefly over location. Two big, burly roustabouts swaggered into the center – a large, vacant expanse – and began barking orders.

  The main tent would hide them from one another. The wagons and tents would provide alleys to hide in and shadows for his flock to call their own. The main tent gave the camp it's heart.

  The Deacon slid down from the wagon's seat and strode to the middle of the clearing. Among the wagons and tents, conversation stilled. Motion ceased. They watched as he stopped dead center and turned slowly. He missed nothing. He placed each one of them, etched their locations into his mind. Then he closed his eyes, rolled his head back so his face was to the sky, and glanced up into the pale face of the moon.

  He raised his arms.

  Maybe it was the sudden motion. Maybe it was one of those coincidental moments in time where two concurrent events blend to a single image. The Deacon's long dark cloak flapped around him like a shroud, or full, dark wings.

  From the trees lining the gulch, the crooked, drooping shrubs and the craggy outcroppings of rock, a black cloud rose. They screamed to the night, spilling into the sky like a dark tide. At first they resembled a vast flock of bats -- or something worse. Only after they spread and draped the sky was their true nature revealed.

  "Rooks," a man breathed.

  The Deacon opened his eyes and watched as the birds dispersed and dove, winding out of the sky like small tornadoes of shadow and returning to their roosts – or to different ones. Further away from the camp. Further from the center.

  He knew they were not rooks. They were crows. The old country had been alive with rooks, but this land…the carrion feeders here were larger, and darker. Still, the significance was not lost on him.

  "And the rooks shall rise," The Deacon intoned, his voice carrying across the clearing and into the night. "They shall rise and announce the coming of death. They shall carry the souls of the faithful home."

  He knelt in the dust and pressed the tip of his finger into the dirt. He circled that finger slowly, drawing a pattern. The clearing might as well have been empty. There was no sound. The wind whirled around him and lifted the collar of his long coat to ripple across the brim of his hat.

  As he worked, he spoke in ver
y low tones, words too soft to be understood. Though the earth was hard and dry, his finger dug through the parched soil. As it passed, it left a series of symbols in an odd, symmetrical sequence. No one breathed; as if afraid the sound would reach the rooks and bid them to return. None was ready at that moment to be called to glory.

  The Deacon rose. He turned once more, and as he spun he whispered to the wind in each quarter in its turn. He stepped away from the center, and when he'd reached the corner of his wagon, the two roustabouts returned to the clearing and took his place. They stepped up to the point where The Deacon had drawn in the dirt, and their four strong arms drove a sharp, rounded stake into the ground. It was as big around as the base of a small tree, and even their combined strength could only barely embed it in the earth. A third man stepped forward with a large wooden mallet. The two big men knelt, and the third man drove the stake home. He swung the mallet between the two without regard to the proximity of their heads or hands. His aim was perfect. Four hard shots and the base stabilized. It would hold the center post of the main tent.

  Sanchez knelt in the shadows beside the wagon and watched as The Deacon passed and began to climb the side of the ridge, winding up and away from the encampment without a backward glance. When the tall man was out of sight, Sanchez rose. His own belongings were heaped beneath a small tree a few yards away. There wasn't much, a canvas bag and a bundled lean-to he could erect in a few moments, or take down just as quickly.

  He moved to the back of The Deacon’s wagon and screwed two tall metal supports down until they rested on the ground and held the rear upright. He did the same at the front. He placed a mason jar half full of whiskey on the wagon rail and watched as the liquid straightened into as flat a line as he could get it. He locked the supports in place and unhitched the horses. He knew he'd have to groom them and feed them, but it had to wait. When The Deacon came back off that cliff, he'd expect his quarters to be ready, and Sanchez had no intention of disappointing his master.

  He whistled once sharply, and a slender, dirty boy materialized out of the milling workers erecting the big tent and finalizing the rest of the camp. Without speaking, the two of them hurried to the back end of the wagon. When the tarps that covered the bed were unbound, they grabbed handles at the rear and slid wooden slats out until they locked. At the end of this, they dropped a set of folding stairs to the ground, then unscrewed and locked the rear supports, effectively doubling the wagon's length. A series of pulleys and ropes allowed them to quickly pull the tarps up and over the top – not patchy or rotted canvas, like so many of the other tents, but white and thick, catching the moonlight and reflecting it back at the sky.

  Once the tarps were in place, the boy disappeared back into the shadows, and Sanchez mounted the stairs. He hated these moments more than any others. The space within the tent had taken on the aspect of The Deacon himself. He flipped the cot down from the side of the wagon, and the heavy wooden desk on the opposite side. There was a small fold out table at the very front, right up against the wagon's bed. Sanchez lowered it into place, and glanced around. Everything had remained in place during the trip. He was particularly happy to see that the books had not tipped from their shelves. On several occasions he'd had to straighten them and return them to their places, and he'd found the touch of the leather repulsive. He studiously avoided reading the titles burned into their spines.

  He unrolled The Deacon's bedroll onto the cot and took a final glance around to be certain he'd forgotten nothing, and then stepped back down to the dusty earth. He let the flap of the tent fall into place behind him, and moved to the shadows, seating himself cross-legged beside his bags. He would find a place to erect his own camp only after The Deacon had returned and settled in. He risked a glance up at the cliff, but saw only shadows. He settled against the gnarled base of a tree and closed his eyes – but he did not sleep.

  ‡‡‡

  The Deacon stood far above the camp at the tip of an outcropping, facing the town of Rookwood. Too many trees and obstacles stood between his perch and town for him to catch any glimmer of firelight, but he knew they were there. He felt them.

  As he stood, he tugged a rawhide thong that hung about his neck until a long, thin pouch came free of his shirt collar. He held it in his hands, but he didn't glance down at it. The soft, supple leather rippled between his fingers, as though something inside sought a weakness. The Deacon raised his gaze to the moon and gripped the pouch more tightly. His hand shook, and glimmers of light leaked between his fingers, though he took no notice. The pouch had begun to glow, and trails of wispy vapor slid out, wound about him, and constricted.

  Miles away he sensed their heartbeats. He heard murmured whispers. He felt the heat of their couplings and the pain of their illness. He sensed the life around him, and hungered for it. It gnawed at him and teased the corners of his sanity. The trembling in his hand spread until he stood, weak and shaking. He staggered half a step forward, and only caught himself at the brink of the cliff. Below, his followers scurried like busy ants, constructing their nests and erecting the great tent. Another step and he'd have planted himself in their center like a dark, rotten seed.

  He stuffed the pouch back into his shirt, and shuddered as it touched his flesh. For a moment, a sickening greenish light seeped out near his chin, and then faded. He stepped back from the edge of the rock, and turned away. Without a backward glance, he began the arduous climb back down from the rocks. The tremor had left his hands, and his steps were strong and even, but his face was even paler than usual, and his expression was strained.

  He reached the bottom, passed by Sanchez without a word or a glance, and disappeared into his tent. Sanchez waited a while longer, until the lantern flickered to life inside, and then slipped into the shadows to find a small corner to stake off as his own. It was late, and the morning would come far too soon.

  Near The Deacon's tent, all eyes were averted. None took notice of the strange shadows dancing across the back-lit canvas, or questioned why - at times, there seemed to be more than one.

  It had begun.

  Chapter Two

  Provender Creed picked at the scraggly whiskers that had grown in since dawn. He was tired; every one of his thirty-six years weighed heavily on his narrow shoulders. He hadn’t slept in three days. Sleep, as he was fond of saying, was for honest men.

  He hawked and spat a wad of tobacco juice over the balcony railing.

  The moon sat fat and low in the bruise-purple sky, turning the rooftops of Rookwood silver with its lambent glow. The noise McGraw called music floated out to him from the saloon at his back and filled in the lulls in the hubbub. The melody was warped and pock-marked. It wasn’t that the notes were wrong, but rather that some were missing. No surprise, really. McGraw only had eight fingers, but he claimed he felt them all. The ghost fingers made no sound, though if you watched the man's hands on the keys you'd swear you could see all ten digits smack ivory.

  Creed leaned on the rail and watched Mae and Colleen saunter down Main Street, arm in arm. The two moved together with a subtle, rhythmic gait that gave the impression they might be joined at the hip. The pair of them were easy on the eye, and even easier on the purse at a dollar a poke. As they approached, he smelled their cheap perfume. The sickeningly sweet reek stuck in his craw, but it was better than the alternative, horse manure, men, and sweat. Mae and Colleen worked for Silas Boone, and he kept a cheap house, preferring lots of custom over bored girls and empty rooms. 'Keep the boys coming back and the girls on their backs' was his motto. As a philosophy, it wasn't as spiritual as it was practical. Still, it served.

  The hint of a coming chill was in the air. Creed felt it creep up the back of his neck. The air stirred, and a shadow dropped beside his on the ground, but Creed didn't turn. He heard something, a voice calling from what seemed a long distance, and shook his head to clear the cobwebs. He turned his attention from the whores to the man who now stood beside him.

  "What?" he said.
/>   "I said it’s a bad business, Creed," Silas Boone said again.

  "What is?"

  "Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?"

  Provender Creed shook his head. "Can’t say as I have," he said. A movement in the bruised sky caught his eye. It was too far away to focus on at first, but as the murder of crows spread out across the shadowy clouds, he found himself trying to count them like that silly nursery rhyme. After sorrow and joy, girls, boys, gold and secrets the trader was lost and there were still hundreds of birds taking wing to fill the sky. They wheeled and screamed, and followed a long, sweeping arc toward town.

  "What the hell?" Creed muttered, as the first bird settled on the shingle of Ed Harmon’s shack. The bird pecked away at the roof for a full minute before it turned to preening its feathers. In that minute more birds settled. One roosted on Rufus Cruller's hotel, another on Felix Ruckley’s supply store, one on the roof of the Sheriff’s Office, one on the print shop and another on the foreman’s hut along toward the road to the mine.

  While Creed watched black feathered birds settled on each of the tar-paper roofs of the shanties down by Slaughter Alley. What he marked as peculiar about their behavior was that not once did two birds settle on the same roof. Within minutes the carrion eaters rested on the rooftops of every building in Rookwood, one bird to each.

  The last of the murder came to rest on the balcony rail less than a yard from where Creed stood. It regarded him with jaundiced eyes.

  "Can’t say as I like the look of this," Silas mumbled, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. The fool still had breadcrumbs in his beard.