Want to know what’s happening? The first book Dust and Sand was serialised here at Geek Pride. A summary is available here. You can also buy the definitive edition of Dust and Sand at all good eBook stores.

The most unique cult of That Which Sins were the Tainted. Most who worship the Whore God were vain, self-obsessed. She was the goddess of carnality, of prioritising one’s own needs, and so attracted followers who embodied these traits. Not so for the Tainted. Their members’ selfless fervour and discipline would make a General weep: all eschewed opportunities for personal power in favour of praising That Which Sins. The Tainted recruited people who matched their ethos, ignoring those of greater power who could destabilise them. Humble worship was their focus. Collective success above all else, as this was the success of their goddess too.

Their chapters were organised to match the preferred sins of their leaders: Defilement, Debasement, and Destruction. When a recruit selfless enough to enhance their ranks joined, they were assigned to the chapter which best matched them. There was no pride in the size of a chapter, nor in their individual achievements. All was sacrificed to That Which Sins. For she was all that mattered.

Unlike their failed brethren, the Wastrels. Such hubris: not only to bring their Goddess to the mortal realm, but to have the audacity to keep pieces of her here. Some amongst the Tainted admired their boldness, true, but not their plan. Or their execution. And especially not losing a Word containing her precious essence.

The Tainted’s leaders had vowed to reclaim the Word at any cost. Great portions of their power waited to be invested should it, or its keeper, resurface. So many vile and cruel things could be achieved with a slice of her. And so, they watched the Badlands constantly, scrying or inhabiting their goddess’ beasts, waiting.

The Debased, leader of Debasement, felt the Wanted Man through the segmented eyes of a Bloat. He had been exploring out of curiosity, wanting to see the glorious Badlands. Feeling that hated amalgam was a boon, a gift from his Goddess.

Immediately, he withdrew from the Bloat and called the Tainted’s leaders together.

It took them hours to gather – each had their own plans and worship – and there were many developments during that time, but they were soon enough connected, the tumorous hommonculi growing on their necks forming a psychic bond.

“Good morning, my brothers,” the Destroyer said. A crimson presence, mindless rage and carefully-planned murder. She sat, legs crossed, in fresh blood. “It is good to feel you once more.”

“And a good morning to you, Sister of Destruction,” the Defiler said, “Brother of Debasement.” He used their full titles out of respect. They had no other names, having sacrificed them to That Which Sins. The Defiler was milky, murky, and cruel, like forced surgery or a burning temple. He rested on one knee in puddles of animal secretions.

“Good morning both,” the Debased said. He’d been told he was a sickly green presence, wretched and stinking and quivering in fear and pleasure. He knelt in an iron pool of human effluence, lit by candles of human tallow.

“You mentioned something about the Word?” the Defiler asked.

“Has it resurfaced?”

“It has,” the Debased said. “As expected, the Wanted Man did not leave Texas. Not even the Badlands. Since I called you, many have felt him on our tainted earth. He fought an artificial Omnis being, losing some protection that kept him from lesser beings’ sight, so now most everyone knows he and the Word are abroad.”

The Destroyer tutted. “He will be inundated with aggressors then, our own and those of the lesser Gods, all hoping to attain a fragment of greatness. We must act soon. Today.”

“I am not so sure, not yet,” the Defiler said. “We do not know where he is headed. The Blasphemy could waste precious time and energy without that knowledge. Perhaps we should wait until we know more, but prepare ourselves to unleash our wrath?”

“Oh, my brother, my sister,” the Debased said, “but I do know where he is going.”

“How?”

The Debased plunged his hand into the mess surrounding him. It came out cloyed by food and viscera. A prayer to That Which Sins, thanking her for her blessings. “Do you both remember our discussions on what the Wanted Man could do with a piece of That Which Sins? What he might seek to achieve?”

“We do,” his brethren said in unison.

He felt his thoughts grow closer to theirs. As usual during such communions, a knitting together of separate beings. Soon he wouldn’t need to speak. This bond was another reason the Tainted would not fail: they were regularly unified in the truest sense.

A glob of half-digested egg dripped from his hand. “One of Debasement’s creatures captured a Teotek hunter. So, I now know the Wanted Man hid at their holy ancient city. It was the last thing the hunter screamed. Since then, he has travelled in only one direction. Given that he would not waste time, it is clear he makes for our great work. The Southern Wound.”

“Then it as we feared,” the Destroyer said. “He seeks to damage That Which Sins.”

“Or to block her power entering our world,” the Destroyer and the Defiler said together.

“Those are the most sensible options,” the Debased said.

Those were his last words before his personality was subsumed. He melded with the others’ emotions and intentions. A loss of self but a gain of grand experiences and knowledge. Once a year, the Tainted joined as one great mind like this, an orgy of dreams and fantasies. This combining, becoming, made them collectively long for that great celebration.

“It seems we are all in agreement,” they said together. “The Blasphemy must be summoned to assault the Wanted Man at the Southern Wound. Yes. We cannot let our work of long ago be destroyed. We cannot have anything harm our Goddess. The Blasphemy will be made ready immediately. Good. Praise be to That Which Sins.”

They remained connected to finalise the details, co-ordinate their rituals, arrange the minutia of great magical works. It was perfect harmony, a blend so clear they couldn’t feel their old personalities. What being in a cult should be like.

When they were in complete agreement, their hummonculi pulled their thoughts apart until they were individuals once more. An excruciating experience, like a removed blade or a burst cyst, but one they welcomed. Pain, like pleasure, was a gift.

“This is our most trying hour since we formed the Southern Wound,” the Defiler said once he was himself. “I pray to That Which Sins for the strength and impurity to weather it.”

“As do I,” the Debased said. “Fervently so.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” the Destroyer said, “I will be spending my time in ritual and sacrifice to take that strength for myself.”

“Each to our own,” the Debased said.

“Each to our own,” the other two said.

They severed their connection and went to work. The Debased, as the one nearest to the Southern Wound, had the most critical role. He stood, dressed in a long, filthy robe, and left his sanctum.

The Defiler was right: nothing had tested them like this since they, along with the Greatest Gifts of Melting Flesh, tore gaps in the heavens. Working with such heathens had been… trying. Mostly, it involved not tearing each others’ throats out. But, with prayer and care, they had achieved something wondrous. Even if they had lost control of it, nothing could ever heal the Southern Wound. And that was thanks to their discipline.

That discipline was now needed in abundance.

The Debased left his meagre cabin, into the early morning. Rough dormitories dotted the landscape. Stone buildings with thatched roofs squatted between them, places of worship. There wasn’t a hint of the sun in the sky. Most everyone was asleep, though some guarded their land, rifles and fetishes ready. They were mostly white – Irish or Swedish – but some Chinese and former slaves made up their ranks.

The Debased was African. Bright pink scars laced across his dark skin. Dried shit and vomit dreaded his hair, which crawled down to his shoulders. On his neck was a necklace formed from strips of his own flesh, wrapped around the one-eyed homunculus growing from him. He looked like a beggar king, a walking corruption. A true believer.

He walked to their main chapter hall, where Maisey awaited him. Low, cheap roof, pews all to one side, blood and death in the air. Meagre candles lit Maisey, a bedraggled and half-starved wretch with no hair at the room’s centre. A lesser member of Debasement sliced her with a rusted half-scissor, her blood feeding a ritual circle carved into a stone panel in the floor.

They both stood and abandoned the ritual when he entered .

“My Debased.”

“We must prepare the Blasphemy,” he said. “Wake everyone.”

“Of course,” Maisey said. She shooed the initiate away. “When do we need it ready?”

“As soon as possible.”

Maisey nodded and ran to gather the faithful. Her acolyte bowed and ran after her.

Leaving them to it, the Debased approached a trapdoor in the rough wooden flooring. A wave and a word of power cleared its illusory protection. The world felt sideways for a split-second, and then the arcane passage appeared in the floorboards.

From this new gap, a living ladder snaked up. Metallic, pink, seductive, horrifying.

“May I use you?”

The ladder, moist, quivered in acquiescence. It moaned at his touch.

He descended into a brick room on its fleshy form. Into a charnel house. Streamers of viscera hung from hooks in the walls and ceiling. Sacrifices moaned out their last in dark, chained corners. Dead dogs, cattle, and birds were piled in hip-high mounds. They lay amongst dead people, making a wonderful vista of horror.

Some would consider it a nightmare. To him, it was a temple. A dream. A perfect keeping place for the Blasphemy, their pending apocalypse, their patient victory.

Three potential housings for their great creature were made. One each, as they could not know where the Wanted Man would appear and what he would do. Only his would be used. But the others would not go to waste. He was sure his counterparts could think of something to do with such vessels…

The Debased approached the Blasphemy’s stone podium. The Blasphemy was a wooden dress-maker’s mannequin decorated with rituals and spells. A top-to-toe suit of skin hung over it, a mockery of military dress, made from many unwilling volunteers. Genitalia encircled its waist like a belt. Cursed blades snaked from its cuffs, one serrated, the other smooth. A crown of kris blades protruded from its featureless face.

The Blasphemy would be a triumph. Its design had taken weeks, its craft involved hundreds of sorcerers, theologians, and craftsmen. All to form something powerful enough to match the Wanted Man and anything else that might challenge it for the Word.

The idea behind it had been the Destroyer’s: make something that eliminated competition between creatures of That Which Sins, a General which could not be denied. Forming such a creature had taken much research, but the trick had been simple in the end. All they needed was a miniature Southern Wound, mobile, sentient. That Which Sins would immediately grant this new in-road to the mortal realm her praise, enabling it to dominate all, albeit temporarily. The Blasphemy would last a day at most, but that was more than long enough to reclaim their goddess’ soul.

The Debased leant forward and stroked the doll’s blank brow. Though the room was cold, the stolen flesh below radiated heat.

“You will soon awaken and achieve wondrous things. You will bring us closer to That Which Sins. And you will kill the Wanted Man.”

It jerked in response. Already, his compatriots had started their rituals, pouring power through their copies of the Blasphemy and into this one.

“Soon,” the Debased said with a smile. “So very soon.”

Want to know what’s happening? The first book Dust and Sand was serialised here at Geek Pride. A summary is available here. You can also buy the definitive edition of Dust and Sand at all good eBook stores.

Dust, Penelope, and Shadows Fade rode for hours, their horses putting their nervous energy into escaping. All too soon, tired as their riders, they slowed. All of them got an unplanned nap, but it hadn’t brought any rest. Fitful sleep, frightful dreams. Shadows Fade looked the freshest after her early knock, but even she was yawning.

“We need to hunker down,” Dust said. “Any ideas?”

Penelope shrugged. Matthew looked blank, fatigue and shock stealing his tongue.

Shadows Fade tapped her chin. “I might have a cache nearby. Let me get my bearings.”

Dust pulled on Horse’s reins. He gratefully slowed, panted heavily, and looked back at Dust witheringly.

Dust patted Horse amicably. “We’ll stop soon, boy.”

Shadows Fade hopped off Horse and scouted around. Godly Claw caught up with them after a minute and had a quick, whispered conversation with her mistress. The Spirit Wolf replied by pointing with its muzzle. After a few moments, Shadows Fade rose.

“One of my caches is to the north, about five minutes riding. It is big enough to accommodate all of us and safe enough to rest in.”

“Sounds like heaven right about now,” Penelope slurred.

Matthew mumbled something, his eyes lidded.

“Yeah, what he said,” Dust said. “Lead the way.”

Shadows Fade did just that.

They arrived at an artificial valley, its walls too smooth and even to come from weather or erosion. A clean chip in the earth. Dust couldn’t imagine what’d made it, or why, but who could understand what the Three decided to do?

They rode to the valley’s lowest point, where the walls were marble smooth, almost polished. The ground would’ve been too if not for centuries of dust and kicked-up dirt.

Shadows Fade leapt from her ride and approached the seamless rock. “It is here. Opening the way will take a minute.”

Dust felt something watching them. He looked up. “Hurry it up.”

“Why?”

Dust pointed at the Lucifers, or Demonettes, depending on who you spoke to, at the valley’s edge. Tiny, red-scaled versions of the Bible’s Devil, complete with horns, goat’s feet, and yellow eyes. A whole pack, led by one that was almost three feet tall.

“I see.”

This larger leader brayed a command and its horde climbed down to meet them.

Dust drew his other gun – and by Hell was it heavy, like trying to aim a hearse – and fired at the onrushing Lucifers. Four went down quickly, falling to face Godly Claw’s eager teeth. He kept firing. More spilled over the valley’s lip. A damn platoon.

Penelope struggled her rifle out and took some shots. Missed. He put her sloppiness down to fatigue and kept firing. A weather-worn ledge crumbled at Penelope’s next shot, far from any of the Lucifers. Dust was about to say something when falling debris knocked a dozen Lucifers from their handholds. Most survived the fall, but none lasted long under Godly Claw’s attentions.

Dust nodded. He shouldn’t have doubted her.

He concentrated on the killing, while Penelope used her remaining bullets to topple rather than wound. Godly Claw cleaned up their mess. Scores lay rotting around Shadows Fade, but more kept coming. An army of tiny demons. An inevitable fight after he’d lost his Blanket.

Another bray of rage rang out. Dust risked a look behind him and saw more Lucifers racing down the opposite side of the valley.

“Pull towards Shadows Fade. Be ready to run inside when she’s done.”

Dust geed Horse next to the warrior. The others pulled in, forming a tight circle. Matthew had no weapons, but he raised his fists, prepared to fight if needs be. Terrified, but prepared.

Shadows Fade chanted slowly. Faint orange light dripped from her fingertips. Whatever protection she’d put up was damn strong. What did she keep in these caches? Other than dynamite, of course.

Penelope leapt at the first Lucifers to get to ground level. Her blade flashed and killed, her stature working for her against such short enemies. Still, their numbers massed even as the dead piled up, forcing Dust to use his other gun as a club. Huge sweeps to keep them back. Those foolish enough to get too close, or too slow to dodge, were left broken in the dirt.

Horse joined in, stamping and biting. The other animal’d been trained to kick out too, albeit with less determination or spite.

Still, they might have held out if not for the leather-soft whisper of bat wings. The elder Lucifer entered the fray on huge dark wings, wielding a whip made from a creature’s barbed tail. Normally, it would be just another target, but fatigue made it a powerful champion. Worse, its unusual nature was drawing more attention. Nothing concrete yet, but they would soon be found if–

“Done,” Shadows Fade shouted. Magical wind rattled through Dust’s clothes. An orange circle unfolded from the valley’s pristine hide. “Get inside, now.”

Dust grabbed Shadows Fade’s horse and pulled the beast toward the portal. Penelope and Matthew weren’t far behind, then Horse shot through. Shadows Fade jumped in last, narrowly avoiding small, vicious claws and teeth.

The orange portal closed. Lucifers threw themselves against where it had been. Thuds rang out until they finally realised that their prey was somewhere far away. Somewhere else.

Penelope laughed. Matthew joined her, delighted just to be alive. Horse and his pal harrumphed and stamped their feet. They all needed to unwind, catch their breath.

Not Dust. He examined Shadows Fade’s cache. A semi-sphere with no exit. Dark as a cave. No entrances or exits. Safe and easy to defend, if it came to that.

Shadows Fade rustled in the darkness and lit a lantern. Illuminated the murals lining the walls, carvings of warriors fighting the Three. Rough statues embedded with skeletons stood in the centre, honouring long-dead warriors. This wasn’t just some cache. This was a sepulchre.

“Welcome,” Shadows Fade said, a smile playing across her features. She lit a second lantern and handed it to Matthew. “It is not much, but this is my cache.”

“Right now, it is the most wonderfully-appointed place I ever did see,” Matthew breathed.

“I can’t disagree. Look at this place! It’s incredible.” Penelope blinked. “What is it?”

Shadows Fade stepped to the far end, where most of the crates were. All of modern design and materials. She produced a third lantern and lit it. Held one in each hand.

“Long before your people desecrated these lands, a great battle was fought here between the Huatacans and dark spirits of the Three. The men and women enshrined here gave their lives for that victory. When the war became silence, those warriors were buried where they triumphed. That valley outside is an unhealed scar and this tomb is in its walls. Though not directly.”

Matthew said, “Wait, our people? What do you mean?”

“People of Europe. The Irish, Spanish, Swedes. Your kind.”

“Why do you blame our people?”

Dust coughed and brought up phlegm. He swallowed it, not rude enough to spit in someone’s tomb. “Sad to say, the Badlands were raised by folk like us. Bought in slave and native blood.”

The young man blinked twice. “Damn, really? Well… damn.”

Penelope put a hand on his shoulder. “I know, it’s hard to take when you first hear it. But you get used to it. You’ve got to, really: the fact is, we brought Omnis over with us to the New World, along with all manner of diseases and depravity. Just… accept it.”

“Depravity? How would you know–?”

“We should get some rest,” Dust said to save Penelope’s blushes.

“Shadows Fade, do we need a watch in here?” Penelope asked, grateful to change the subject.

“No. Exit and entry only happens by my leave. Or that of another warrior who knows of this place, of which there are few. We are safe.”

“Glad to finally be safe,” Matthew said.

“Yup,” Penelope agreed. “Things are looking up.”

“Come on, let’s all hit the hay. It’s just going to be worse tomorrow.”

The joy drained from Penelope and Matthew. Dust wanted to take his words back, but he couldn’t without lying: without his Blanket, everything in Texas could see them. They would be lit up like fireworks. Worse, enough worshippers of the Three would’ve seen them fight today, twice, that the entire Badlands would be watched closely to find them and their cargo. Every inch of progress would have to be scrapped and bled for.

“Maybe we should eat first, though,” Shadows Fade said, approaching Dust. “I shall cook.”

“We’ll set up beds,” Penelope said, grabbing Matthew’s hand. “Come on.”

Off they went, to some folded up cots near the cache’s entrance.

Shadows Fade handed Dust a lantern and rustled through her cache for some rice and dried vegetables. She produced some battered pans and started boiling old water on a flat stone infused with magic. A simple meal, but you couldn’t expect much more on the trail.

Dust shook his head. He was watching her work. Making himself useful, he watered the horses, groomed them, and treated their wounds.

“You’ve been in the wars boy,” Dust said to Horse, who bled from multiple places.

Horse gave him a look as if to say exactly who he blamed for that.

“I know, I know.”

He caught Penelope’s voice as he worked: “That wasn’t the first time I’ve seen those things.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so: you seem to have fought a hundred battles.”

She waved him away. “Nonsense. I’m not that seasoned.”

“You could have fooled me with the way you fought. And you took down that creature which had Dustin on the ropes… You’re mighty impressive, Penelope.”

Penelope giggled like a schoolgirl.

Dust smiled. He’d not heard her that open and happy before. It must’ve been a while since she’d gotten to flirt. If she ever had in her buttoned-down life as a Senator’s daughter.

Senator Chalmers. Poor man. He’d probably arranged Joshua’s posse, desperate to find out what’d happened to his daughter. To the Senator, the Wanted Man was a kidnapper. Or a murderer. It’d take solid words from Penelope to convince him otherwise, words he’d never hear whilst Dust was free. William Naismith would make sure of that. Dust didn’t blame the Senator for organising such a posse: he would certainly move mountains in the Senator’s position.

“I didn’t mean that, though,” Penelope continued. “I meant I’ve seen those devil things before. They attacked a… convoy I was a part of. Evil little things. They can tear a man apart.”

Matthew shuddered. “Why are you telling me this?”

“To say that you did well, silly. I saw veterans lose their minds fighting a pack of those horrors. You barely blinked, even unarmed.”

Good point. He’d kept his cool even without a weapon. That took guts.

Matthew cleared his throat. “Why, thank you, Penelope.”

“You’re welcome, Matthew.”

“My friends call me Matty.”

“Very well. Then you’re welcome, Matty.”

Dust walked back to Shadows Fade when he was done. She had a rough broth going.

“It will be very hard on them,” Shadows Fade murmured.

“What will?”

“Their friendship, or more.” Penelope and Matthew laughed behind them. “We cannot take him further tomorrow. Making that decision, prioritising the Iron Warrior, will be hard on Penelope. And being abandoned once more will be hard on Matthew.”

“Let them have their dalliance. That’s a matter for tomorrow.”

Shadows Fade nodded, then lifted the spoon to her mouth. Tasted what she’d made.

“The food is ready.”

They ate heartily, almost not chewing, definitely not talking. Then they retired. Matthew and Penelope slept next to each other. Hands over their mouths, they whispered about their lives and their families, though Matthew didn’t talk much about either.

Dust listened in until they stopped, then stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep.