Excerpt

Chapter 1

Jarryd's mother was arguing with the shopkeeper, a little man with a round head dotted with random tufts of gray hair.

"All the color washed out of this ribbon the first time I washed it. Look at it. It's practically gray. Who wants to wear a gray ribbon in their hair?"

The little man crossed his arms and shook his head vigorously. "I'm not responsible for whatever you did after you bought the ribbon."

"Are you saying this is my fault?" she said, her voice rising.

Jarryd flinched. He was only five, but he'd long ago learned that when his mother got that sound in her voice, it meant he should stop what he was doing if he didn't want to get into trouble.

Unfortunately, the shopkeeper didn't seem to understand.

"It's surely not my fault," he said stubbornly. "All my products are the highest quality."

"Maybe you don't know what quality means," she retorted.

The little man leaned forward, putting his hands on the counter. "I've been in this business for thirty years and I…"

The shop keeper continued, but Jarryd was no longer hearing his words. What he was hearing was the man's growing anger.

His mother replied, her voice getting a little louder, but by then the words were all background noise. He was hearing her anger as it rose too.

Jarryd took a step back. He didn't like being around people when they were fighting. It wasn't the shouting that bothered him. He'd learned that people could fight without ever getting loud. It was the bad feeling in his stomach that he didn't like.

The fighting was getting worse. He took another step back, then another. He bumped into the front wall of the shop. He turned around and saw that the door was open.

He glanced back. His mother wasn't paying any attention to him. She was too busy fighting.

On impulse, he walked out the door.

It was a gray autumn morning, a slow drizzle falling from steel-gray clouds. The rain pressed the fallen leaves that dotted the village street into the mud. The few people out and about were hurrying about their business, collars turned up against the damp.

He looked back again. Still his mother didn't notice.

He took a couple of steps down the street. There was a candle shop next door. He liked when his mother took him there. The candles smelled like flowers and honey.

He walked closer, thinking about going inside. Mother probably wouldn't mind. He'd been there lots of times. But as he put his hand on the knob, something drew his attention and he turned.

Something was happening. He couldn't see what it was, but he could feel it. It seemed to be coming from the center of the village.

He frowned as he concentrated on it. There was a low babble of voices, but that wasn't what he was concentrating on. It was something else, something deeper. A bunch of people were over there, and they were excited and upset about something.

Normally, he wouldn't have gone any closer, but there was something different about this, something he'd never encountered before. It was like electricity in the air. It made his skin tingle.

It made him curious.

With one more look at the shop where his mother was, he started down the street.

He passed the shop that sold clay pots and another he'd never been in. Then there were a couple of homes. The first one had missing roof shingles and a front door that sagged so badly that it didn't close right. That one belonged to old man Potter. Jarryd didn't like him. Old man Potter always had a sour look on his face and there were feelings coming off him that made Jarryd want to run away.

The next home had a big garden in front, though the garden had mostly been harvested already, only a few pumpkins on withered vines remaining. The woman who lived there always smiled at him. He liked her, even though he could feel that there was a lot of sadness behind her smile.

Neither of them came out as he passed by. The street took a sharp turn then. He paused at the corner for a last look back. He could still run back to Mother. He was going to get into trouble. She might even take away his favorite toy, a figure his father had carved for him from wood. His father was really good at carving. The figure was wearing armor and had a sword strapped to his hip. Jarryd played with it endlessly, sending the man out to rescue princesses from bandits and monsters. His father said if he was good, he'd carve a horse for him too.

But the strange energy coming from the center of the village was pulling at him. He really wanted to know what was going on. What was making people feel like that?

There was no way to know unless he went and saw for himself.

Once around the corner, he started hurrying. Maybe he could make it back before his mother realized he was gone. The street narrowed and curved sharply. He didn't see any people on it. A dog rushed out from behind a house and barked at him, but it was behind a tall fence, so Jarryd didn't worry about it. Besides, he liked dogs.

It didn't take long to get to the main square in the middle of the village. There were a lot of people there, almost as many as on market day. Some he recognized, like old man Potter, leaning on his knobby cane, but there were also plenty of others he didn't, people who'd probably come from outlying farms or nearby villages.

They were clustered around Rector Freckus, the priest of Creekside's only temple. The Rector was standing on the steps of the temple, his upper body visible above the crowd.

Jarryd came to a dead stop when he saw the Rector. He didn't like the man at all. He knew he was supposed to—Rector Freckus was the mortal voice of the god Vidon after all—but he couldn't help himself. The Rector frightened him. The feelings coming off him were dark and tangled. Whenever Jarryd got too close to him, he had to squeeze his eyes shut and try very hard to keep those feelings from touching him.

Every week he went with his parents to the temple to worship and he dreaded it every time. The things the Rector said about what Vidon did to those who sinned gave him nightmares.

But, although a little voice inside his head was saying that he should run back to Mother, he couldn't seem to move. He felt trapped somehow, like when bugs got caught in sap on the pine trees.

"Let this be a warning to all of you," Rector Freckus said, pointing a long, bony finger at the people crowded around them. His skin was sallow, his nose so large it was almost a beak. His white hair hung to his shoulders. He was wearing his official attire, an ankle-length black robe cinched at his waist with a piece of frayed rope. Perched on his head was a tall, pointed hat and around his neck hung the symbol of his god, a thorny branch cast in crude iron.

"When you let evil into your hearts, Vidon sees. And what Vidon sees, he punishes." He glared at the people gathered around, challenging them to defy him. None did. Heads were lowered and sidelong looks were exchanged.

Satisfied that his audience was properly cowed, the Rector turned his head to the side and motioned. "Bring the wicked forth!" he boomed. "Let him meet his punishment."

The temple door swung open and three men emerged. The one in the front had big eyes and was shaking. His hands were bound behind his back and the two men behind him were gripping his upper arms.

Jarryd recognized the man right away. His name was Barney. Barney helped out on his parents' farm sometimes during harvest season, when they needed the extra hands. He worked for other farmers too and did odd jobs around the village. Jarryd liked Barney. Mostly good feelings came from Barney, who always had a big, gap-toothed smile for him. And Barney was more than happy to put Jarryd up on his shoulders and pretend to be his horse. It was more fun riding Barney than the only horse Jarryd's family owned, an old, sway-backed nag with only two speeds, plod and stop.

Jarryd frowned. What were they doing to Barney? Why was the Rector mad at him? Barney never hurt anyone. He felt a shiver of fear and looked over his shoulder, hoping to see his mother there, come to take him away. The energy swirling around the crowd was changing, getting darker. Something bad was going to happen, he just knew it. And he didn't want to be here when it did.

But there was no sign of his mother. There was no one to take him away. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the scene unfolding before them. No one noticed the small boy standing at the back.

"Please, Rector Freckus," Barney said as the men pushed him up beside the Rector, "I didn't do nothing. I'm a good sheep, you know that." The Rector called the residents of Creekside his sheep. He treated them like it as well, telling them regularly that without his harsh guidance, they would surely fall to the wolves that waited for all who strayed from the narrow path of righteousness.

The Rector fixed him with a hard look, fierce enough that Barney, who'd been about to say something else, shut his mouth suddenly.

"Do you deny that you see demons?" Freckus said, thrusting his bony chin at the man.

Barney withered under his glare. "They…they aren't demons." His voice was childlike and pleading, but it had no effect on Freckus, whose glare only deepened.

"Don't make it worse for yourself," the Rector said. "Your only hope now is confession."

Barney looked to the crowd for help but saw none there. He lowered his head. "I…I see things, it's true. But I don't think it's demons…"

"You don't think." The Rector's voice was laden with scorn. "And what would you know? Are you a rector, chosen by Vidon to guide the sheep of the world?" He didn't wait for Barney to reply but continued ruthlessly. "No, you're not. You're only a man, and a simple one at that."

Barney's lip quivered. He looked like a dog waiting to be beaten by his master.

The Rector turned to the waiting crowd. His voice dropped to an ominous growl. "What does Vidon say awaits those who consort with demons?"

With one voice, the crowd responded, a single word: "Damnation."

Jarryd very nearly cried out as the energy in the air suddenly took on a ravenous feel.

"Damnation!" the Rector thundered, shaking his fist, his white hair waving.

"No!" Barney wailed. "It's not like that. I'm a good man."

The Rector ignored him. His focus was on the crowd. More than ever Jarryd wanted to run away. But he couldn't. He was rooted to the spot. Something very bad was coming, and there was no escape.

"And what does the Iron God tell us to do with the damned?" Freckus said.

A roar came from the crowd. Mixed into the roar were two words, repeated over and over: "Burn him! Burn him! Burn him!"

Jarryd did cry out then, but his small, thin voice was lost in the roar of the crowd. He could almost see the mob's madness, like a black wraith that swirled around them.

Barney turned white. He tried to run, but the men flanking him clamped down on his arms with fanatic strength and he got nowhere.

Without another word, the Rector strode off the steps of the temple. The crowd parted for him, the chant dying away. The men dragged Barney after him. Barney had ceased struggling. Tears streamed down his broad face.

Still frozen in place, Jarryd turned his head to follow the Rector's progress and saw what he'd missed before. A wooden stake, driven into the ground, a large quantity of wood piled nearby.

Barney was lashed to the stake as people surged forward and began piling the wood around him. He didn't resist. His lips moved, but Jarryd could not hear what he said.

Quickly the task was completed. The townspeople moved back, leaving Barney alone. The Rector strode forward.

"Last chance to confess," he hissed.

"I…I didn't…"

"Then you are surely damned."

Barney looked around, seeking help from the onlookers. "Barrin," he called out to a stout-looking man wearing a blacksmith's long, leather apron, "you know me! You know I don't have no truck with demons."

The blacksmith turned his face away.

Next Barney's pleading look fell on a stout woman with curly black hair and round shoulders. She wore a thick, homespun dress that reached to the ground and a bonnet.

"Orta!" he cried. "You know me! I helped you fix the fence around your garden. You know I wouldn't have nothing to do with demons."

Orta flinched as if struck, then turned her face away as well.

"What I see in my visions isn't demons," Barney said, looking at the Rector. The tears were wetting his tunic. "I can't help it. Please!"

"It is far too late for mercy," the Rector said, pointing at him. "For your evil you shall suffer eternal damnation." He turned to a man holding a lit torch.

"Burn him."

The torch was thrown onto the wood, which caught quickly, the flames spreading greedily. Smoke crept upward.

"I'm a good man!" Barney wailed. "I don't—"

The flames reached him then and his words cut off, replaced by a scream of pain. He fought wildly, but the ropes holding him were secure, the stake anchored deeply into the ground. His trousers blackened, then began to burn.

Wild animal screams came from Barney as the flames reached ever higher. But Jarryd no longer heard. He was on the ground, thrashing, screaming. For it felt as if it was his own flesh burning, the skin blackening and splitting.

The flames crackled and spat. Barney's shirt was in flames, tongues of fire sprouting in his hair.

"Help meeee!" Barney howled.

Somehow Jarryd made it to his feet. Still wailing, his eyes blurred with tears, he ran blindly from the square.

Then suddenly Jarryd's mother was there. She swept him up in her arms and carried him away from the horror.

But Jarryd knew that no matter how far she took him, he would never be completely free of it.