Chapter 1:

  The First Commandment

  Anki had never known such fear as he did now.

  He ran, blood in his ears, between towering monoliths of crimson crystal that glowed with an inner light. The sound of distorted thunder, too low and longing, echoing always irregardless of any lightning.

  But that was not why he was afraid. No, decidedly not.

  Panting, Anki’s muscles strained for another breath, for another moment of life.

  He slid to a stop, heels grinding softly against the blasted gray sand, and he listened.

  Nothing but the thunder.

  He sighed, and fell to the ground, his back to one of the garish red pillars, which glowed faintly from beneath. Lying next to it his skin shone a dull bloodred color.

  By this light he pulled aside his satchel, pulling the skin-stitched bag open quickly, drawing the locking teeth aside with too little caution. The bag bit his hand deeply with a hiss and he cursed, dropping it to the floor. The pale bag, stitched of the skin of the dead, writhed on the ground uncomfortably. It hated being on the ground.

  He picked the bag up gingerly, stroking its side gently, as one might a large fussy cat. It seemed to settle into his touched, and he opened its teeth with slow easing movements.

  Inside a small trove of jewels, small letters and manuscripts of unpublished novels, clocks and toys and family heirlooms of all kinds.

  Anything of personal value they could find.

  Anything the Ragpicker might like.

  A distant roar echoed over the thunder, which momentarily quieted in response, as if itself afraid.

  Disturbed, he picked himself up and continued walking at a steady pace.

  He had to, if he didn’t find the Ragpicker before that thing found him, then everyone he loved back in the End would be dead before dawn.

  ...

  Far behind Anki, moving without hurry, a second figure crossed the wastes.

  He did not run. In the Wastes, running was for prey.

  And the hunter was never prey.

  He watched unmoved as the reed-thin boy stumbled between crystal spires, and adjusted his own path slightly, cresting a hill high above and walking in its shadow.

  Staying close but always out of sight.

  The tremor came.

  Subtle.

  Deep.

  A rumbling in the sands.

  The hunter could hardly contain himself.

  Soon, the thrill of death would be upon him and he relished the thought.

  He adjusted the straps on his back, anxious to be free of them soon. Something massive shifted beneath his cloak — weight like a broken monument bound in leather and cord.

  A sword like no other.

  The boy stumbled again, this time sending a pile of skulls clattering to the ground.

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  The hunter clicked his tongue softly in irritation.

  Too loud.

  “Stay moving,” he murmured under his breath. “Don’t stop now.” The man’s burden scraped softly against stony ground as he stooped to watch.

  “It’ll be soon now, patience.” The hunter whispered to the sword, patting it gently.

  The thunder moaned overhead and the tremors again shook the earth. Stronger this time.

  Closer.

  The boy cried out, doubling his efforts to scurry up the hillside. And somewhere far behind him the sodden gray earth was beginning to churn violently.

  The hunter could hardly wait.

  …

  Everyone in Blessed End knew the First Commandment.

  The reason for their survival.

  Never talk to demons or their human pets.

  They brought nothing but death and destruction wherever they went.

  And yet still, Anki’s father had dragged him out of their hut in the middle of the night ranting about devils.

  Old Randu had always been fascinated by the creatures, spirits of chaos and corruption, driven to satisfy their natures in a writhing tide of teeth.

  They had destroyed their world, tearing into it from the spiritual realm by a means still unknown.

  Skraid became the Demon Wastes, and mankind became prey for monsters.

  And yet Blessed End had endured it, pulling all their people high into the mountains, hiding in old caves on forlorn peaks far from the nightmares beneath. And they had done so successfully for 9 odd years by abiding by the First Commandment with the strictness of steel. They did not meddle with demons.

  Anki and Randu went deep into the caves, where his father had clearly set candles burning earlier.

  The small circular chamber seemed carved instead of naturally formed, and the arcane symbols scrawled across every surface told Anki where his father had been disappearing to in the night these last few months.

  “You will see my son, my new friend, Vaarak, will explain it all. Just come and see.” He beckoned slowly towards the circle, his eyes wide and blazing in the candlelight.

  “No, father. I won’t. Those are demon-sign! It's the First Commandment of the Covenant! We don’t talk with demons or...” Anki hushed, choking on his words.

  “Or their human pets…” his father finished, his voice quiet and sharp as a knife. “You would do that? Disobey me? Abandon your own father? Your flesh and blood? For some words?”

  “It’s how we survive. You taught me that. Please, let’s go home.” Anki began to back away, but held out a hand for Randu.

  “Perhaps that was good sense of me.” His father chuckled dryly as his eyes and the runes of the summoning circle both began to glow a soft red.

  “Not that it will help you now...”

  Anki’s father made for him with a knife, steel edge hungrily reaching for him. The boy fell back, feeling gingerly at his throat where a thin cut now bled slowly.

  “Father! Stop this, you aren’t yourself!” He cried falling back. Randu’s face was blank as he approached, playfully sliding one foot forward after the other.

  “Hold still now my sweet boy, Vaarak needs blood. He said so. Enough to bring his legions here. They will show us all so much. You will see.” He chuckled dryly. “Well, perhaps not you. But someone will see.”

  Randu lunged.

  There was no warning left in him. No trace of the father who had taught Anki to trap snow hares or sing to the mountain wind. Just firelit eyes and a knife drawn in devotion to something unspeakable.

  Anki screamed—wordless and panicked—as he flung up his arm. The steel kissed his skin, just a graze, but enough.

  He struck out, knocking his father’s hand aside, and the knife fell between them. Anki caught it—poorly, painfully—by the blade.

  Blood streaked down his wrist, but his fingers clenched it tight.

  Randu hesitated only a moment, and then came again, arms spread wide as if to embrace him.

  Anki didn’t think.

  He didn’t aim.

  He lunged at his father with the knife.

  The blade sank in deep—beneath the ribs, where the old stories said the spirit resided.

  Randu gasped, a single sharp breath, and staggered, slowly falling to his knees, folding into his son’s arms like a child spent from the days play.

  The flickering candles trembled. A breeze stirred, though there was no wind.

  Anki held him, stunned.

  His father’s breath rattled in his throat, his mouth twitching. Then at last, he spoke, voice barely a whisper.

  “A-anki?”

  Anki didn’t answer.

  “Help me son. I’m hurt bad.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Please…I…only wanted to show you…wonders.”

  Anki stared straight ahead, eyes burning but dry, blood soaking into his tunic as the weight of the man who raised him grew heavier by the second.

  “I’m sorry son. I’m sorry.” His father wept softly, every breath more shallow than the last.

  Still, Anki said nothing.

  The First Commandment burning in his chest like a brand:

  We do not speak to demons. Nor their human pets.

  Randu gave a shudder, half-breath and half sob, then went still. The dying embers of his crimson eyes snuffed out, returning to his familiar milky blue.

  Anki lowered the body gently to the cavern floor, and rose—slowly, like one waking from a bad dream.

  Blood pooled from Randu’s wound, the constant flow spreading through the cracks of the cavern floor like veins. It made Anki shudder.

  “Annnkiiiii,” a voice like papyrus, like grave dust.

  Not his father’s.

  He dared not turn and look, but by the shadows on the cavern wall, he could see the light of the candle flames sent twisted shadows in the horrid shape of some vast winged thing, beaked head ringed in spines like a crown.

  “I see you Anki. I know you Anki. Just a drop, and I can restore your father anew.” How could it be so calming, so soft. A voice he knew to be a demons. For a but a moment, Anki considered.

  With disgust, he turned and left the cave. Bloodied knife in hand.

  He never looked back.

  He had to warn the others.

  First Commandment or no, demons were coming.

  …