HALLOWED GROUND
By Steven Savile & David Niall Wilson
Copyright 2010 by Steven Savile & David Niall Wilson
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
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.
