The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign Read online

  Dedication

  For Fiona, and Pickle

  THE

  GOD TATTOO

  UNTOLD TALES FROM THE TWILIGHT REIGN

  Tom Lloyd

  GOLLANCZ

  LONDON

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Dedication

  Title page

  Introduction

  Beast in Velvet

  The God Tattoo

  The Marshal’s Reflection

  A Man Collecting Spirits

  A Man from Thistledell

  Velere’s Fell

  Dawn

  The Dark of the Moor

  Afraid of the Dark

  The Pictures of Darayen Crin

  Shadows in the Library

  Also by Tom Lloyd

  Copyright

  INTRODUCTION

  The Twilight Reign was never intended to be about one person – not even a group of people. For better or worse in literary terms, I didn’t just want to do a series that followed Isak’s story. He was the fulcrum about which history turned and changed, but that would be meaningless without the events themselves taking centre stage. Stories are about people first and foremost; I’ve written that often enough in critiques of manuscripts, yet in part I’ve ignored my own advice. The Twilight Reign is about people and events; each shaped by the other and inextricably bound together.

  Most of these stories touch upon the plot of the Twilight Reign and at very least they’re part of the world the story exists in, with many of the characters and locations also appearing in the novels somewhere. Some are only referred to or had died prior to events, but when a series is on a scale such as this one there are countless stories surrounding and leading up to the overarching plot – I’ve just picked a few.

  Several, like ‘Velere’s Fell’ or ‘A Man from Thistledell’, influenced the course of the novels rather than the other way round, being stories I’d just wanted to get out of my head at the time. Only later did they reveal themselves as significant to the greater plot, but that’s part of the pleasure to be found in writing a series like this. Others, like ‘A Man Collecting Spirits’, were aspects I wanted to pursue further, and some just happened because my mind is a rather dark and random place.

  You won’t find many major characters from the series here, but during world-changing events it’s not just a few people who’re touched by them so I wanted to show some of the broader picture. I guess it’s no real surprise that before Stormcaller had evolved into its final incarnation, three of the longest stories in this collection were already written – despite the longest concerning events at the end of Ragged Man. There are at least half-a-dozen ideas that I just can’t get right on the page yet, so they haven’t made it into the collection. One day I might have the luxury of finishing stories such as ‘Dead Man’s Gold’, or one of the most important to the series; the ill-fated expedition when Morghien met Rojak and Cordein Malich. Until then however they’ll just have to exist only in obscure references only I’ll be able to spot.

  Don’t see this collection as required reading for fans of the novels – it isn’t. But nor is it, I believe, an attempt to squeeze extra profit out of the world of the Twilight Reign; that would have probably been the prequel trilogy covering the Great War several fans have asked for. Just for the record, it would be quite interesting to see that trilogy, I suppose, but most people know how it ends and several years of my life dedicated to writing something I’d find ‘quite interesting’ . . . well, I doubt I’ll ever be convinced.

  As it is, this collection shows a flavour of my (Twilight Reign-related) thoughts over the twelve-odd years I’ve worked on the series. They’ve always been a part of the story I wanted to tell, but I didn’t ever really expect them to see the light of day. Whether or not you’ve read the series, I hope those thoughts will prove entertaining.

  A BEAST IN VELVET

  Some men know in their bones what law they serve, what fibre or faith determines their actions. Others are a product of circumstance; hammered into shape by the life they lead or the family they were born to. As a child I was a lawless brat – I’ve always held it was my profession that moulded me and few would dispute it. As an old man, consigned by a game leg to watching the Land as it passes me by, I realise the truth is more elusive than that. A single moment is sometimes enough to break such bonds.

  For those who do not live in this glorious whore of a city, I was a captain in the City Watch of Narkang; that sprawling miasma of humanity forged into a nation by one man’s iron will. Over the years of his reign I witnessed a rate of change and growth perhaps unequalled throughout history, moulding the city-state of my birth into the capital of a nation to rival any in the Land.

  For a man of the Watch, this meant ancient enemies now lived side by side; gangs of immigrants and locals waging silent wars of conquest and survival. Gold flowed into the city and caught every man, woman and child in its deceitful grasp; birthing a thousand new crimes unheard of when I was a boy.

  Without the divine mandates handed to the Seven Tribes we had only ourselves, our faith in our ruler and no more. Our laws were the product of fine minds, not scripture, while the very imposition of the law on Narkang was a yoke the people chafed under.

  Growing up in the lawless time before the conquest, I gave myself body and soul to this new order for reasons more than idealism. Narkang had changed. Narkang had become better for all the simmering tensions it contained, far from the city of violence and corruption it had once been. I spent many a faithful year in the service of truth and the law, but then a day came when my world changed – the day I discovered truth was not the holy absolute I had once trusted it to be.

  By the time of the following events I had found myself content with life as never before. A wife, two daughters and a son gave me a happy home, while a collection of promotions and unfortunate demotions had seen me to my most comfortable post; fifty officers and a modest diocese under my command. The politics of the city I happily left to those better suited to it, and in turn I was rarely bothered by that treacherous world. It was in this capacity that I awoke one crisp autumn morning, head fogged with wine and wife growling like a she-bear at the exuberant youth who’d barged his way past the maid who answered the kitchen door.

  Crimes within my district are normally under my sole authority, but this morning I was dragged from my bed to find my horse already saddled and myself well behind events. An undiplomatic order, relayed verbatim by that dear foolish boy serving as my assistant, told me that my superiors were waiting upon my arrival.

  The traders of the Kingsroad all recognised my uneasy style of gallop and called bawdy encouragement as I passed. Arriving at a whorehouse close to the docks it was instantly obvious that something dismal was afoot.

  The building was as any other in those days; young, untreated wood made with as much haste as skill. Though newly-built and in the flower of its youth, the building seemed to sag under the weight of its existence and the grime of the area. My men lingered silently outside under an oppressive fog of gloom, as thick in the air as opium-smoke. By contrast my journey had been through that invigorating crispness one only finds in autumn, so their manner was all the more unexpected.

  I clattered to a halt and was immediately struck by a sense of guilt at violating the quiet. When Count Antern exited the building to greet me, even he seemed to wince at the sound of his own voice. As adviser to the king and member of the City Council, Antern was far my superior, but one I had met frequently in the course of city business. The Commander of the Watch reported to him in effect so Antern’s presence at the scene of a crime wa
s an ill omen, one compounded by the silk handkerchief he held to his mouth and the grip he had on his rapier hilt.

  My relationship with the count was reserved. He had the attitudes and ideals that came with a long pedigree, but an intelligence worthy of respect. For his part I was a commoner no different in status to his manservant. To his credit Antern didn’t dismiss me as worthless or a fool as many of his peers did, but we would never be friends and it was a fact neither of us needed to acknowledge.

  Today he was as affected by the atmosphere of this place as the rest. He gave me only a distracted nod before gesturing me inside. A yellow lace curtain that bore the establishment’s ill-reputed name hung over the door. I pushed it aside and entered an opulent common room of lounging chairs and sofas surrounded by brightly coloured drapes. On the walls was a host of paintings. In the light of day and this strange mood, the images looked ridiculous and grossly crude.

  The corrupting stench of opium rushed up to greet me, laced with the scents of fire-spices and rich tobacco. Two young ladies sat weeping gently with my sergeant looming over them. His expression was grave and he stood so close I wondered for a moment whether the girls were suspects or in need of protection. Both were wrapped in yellow shawls patterned by songbirds – the mark of the house – but aside from those they wore only plain shifts. Without the powder and paint of their trade I was struck by their plain and childlike faces. My daughter was older than both and the thought of her working in such a place sent a cold chill through me.

  I caught my sergeant’s eye, but that place had even got to my grizzled deputy. He kept his silence as I was ushered up a thin stairway off to the left.

  ‘Word is out about this already,’ commented the count wearily. ‘Only the two who found them are still here, the others ran for the nearest tavern.’

  ‘Just what has happened?’

  Trepidation had banished the last vestiges of sleep’s peace and I turned to look Antern in the face. He waved me on, nudging my elbow to direct me up the stairs.

  ‘Best you see yourself.’

  The closest to a warning of what awaited me was a puddle of vomit just outside the doorway to the highest room. When I raised an eyebrow at Antern I saw no trace of embarrassment on his ashen face, he merely indicated that I enter.

  When I had finished bringing up my hurried breakfast, my sergeant appeared at the top of the stair. For a man who had fought on a score of battlefields, even he was reticent about re-entering that room. I shall refrain from describing it. Suffice to say that when the door had been broken down, it was clear that no simple drunk did this. I could hardly believe any man capable of such a thing.

  ‘Do you recognise those symbols on the wall?’ The count spoke to me through his handkerchief and I quickly followed his example. The stench of torn bowels was nearly overwhelming.

  On the wall above the bed was some semblance of writing and a variety of arcane shapes, bloody lines painted in haste. Not anything a simple thief-taker could understand, but I noted them down all the same. The script had an arcane styling, grouped into four distinct sections and centred about a cross within a circle.

  I stepped closer, observing that the centre symbol had not merely been painted on as the rest appeared. The killer had employed some sharp tool to scratch lines into the wood, numerous short straight cuts that combined to form the whole symbol. This design had then been carefully smeared with the life-blood of these fallen women. The implement had cut deep into the wood, but left a wide path. I compared it to the edge of my dagger. No knife produced such a mark.

  ‘Three glasses.’

  My sergeant indicated the table below the window with the stump of his left wrist. His practised eye drank in each inconsequential detail as he moved about the room, careful not to disturb anything. He paused over a platter of food and inspected it carefully before crouching to inspect the large stain on the rug below.

  ‘This ain’t blood here – it’s wine,’ he said, sniffing the dried red mark.

  ‘But that is,’ I replied, pointing to the congealed mess in one of the glasses.

  ‘So we have a murderer who threw away his wine to fill the glass with blood. A person who tore these girls apart and left with the door secured from the inside. Damn.’

  I opened the window. There was blood on the outside too, smeared above the lintel and towards the roof. It wasn’t a climb I’d have liked to attempt.

  The room was a scene beyond anything I had ever imagined. Scarred into my memory, the horror was to plague me in the dark corners of night for years to come. The week that followed the discovery was spent in a tiring and thankless hunt for clues or witnesses – to the profit only of stern notes from my commander and the City Council. Meanwhile terror had gripped my ward and a name haunted the streets as it did my dreams.

  Vampire.

  Sunset on the following Prayerday found me on the balcony of the watch-house. Beside me stood my assistant, the innocent fourth son of a suzerain who was to be groomed for the office of Commander of the Watch. Brandt was good company for a man prone to melancholy. A light-hearted and spirited youth, he had served me well for two seasons by then and remained undaunted by the horror of the monster we sought. At the tender age of fourteen winters Brandt still had a lot to learn, but already had developed the unswerving loyalty that made many love him. It is a cruel irony that this devotion to duty would be the very reason he died, when over the years he had become one of the finest young men I had ever known.

  My heart broke as I heard of his foolish bravery on the walls of the White Palace. So many times I had told the eager youth to leave battle to his soldier brothers, but he had stood back to back with the Lord Isak against that final ferocious breach. It is said he saved the entire city that day; certainly the king himself gave thanks at Brandt’s funeral and his ashes still occupy pride of place at the temple of Nartis. His heroism, and I call it nothing less, was the inspiration of my greatest fury; the democratic decision of Brandt’s watchmen to seek glory with their king on the field at Moorview. Perhaps his example went even further than that. They also suffered terrible injury, but emerged in glory.

  At the time, slate roofs were still infrequent in this burgeoning part of the city. Though Narkang is now famed for its purple slate, it was predominately thatch that bore a gilt edge for those precious minutes before the ghost hour. Wrapped warm against the breeze, we could see much of this side of the city and almost the entirety of our district. What we thought we might see amid the gloaming I am unsure, but there Brandt and I stood – waiting for our questions to be answered.

  From that balcony I could smell the sea’s salt and spices roasting in the market. I stood with my elbows upon the wooden rail, staring out into the reddening sky while Brandt rested his chin and scrutinised those below. He was a fine mimic and constantly studied the manners of others, taking great pleasure from his unseen vantage even as the shadows obscured his view. When the whistles started to call a second act of tragedy, he and I were among the first to hear the piercing calls of my officers.

  ‘Do you think it’s happened again?’ he asked me, a tremor of anxiety in his young voice.

  The calls were clipped and repeated – a crime discovered and help required rather than officer in danger. The difference between the two was speed. The latter brought your comrades riding as though the creatures of the Dark Place were close behind, while in the second they would canter, eyes scanning for anyone hurrying away.

  ‘Gods, I hope not,’ murmured I, with a thought to going home. The scents on the breeze had reminded me of the dinner that would welcome me there.

  ‘If it has, what will you say to the commander?’

  ‘What I said last time, I suppose. I’m a thief-taker. Not a priest, not a mage, not a soldier. I understand the minds of men. Who can say how a monster thinks?’

  Brandt strained his eyes in the fading light to place where he thought the choir of whistles was coming from.

  ‘It is rather close to th
e whorehouse,’ he ventured.

  ‘Sure?’ I asked, a cloak of doom settling about my shoulders.

  The boy turned his hazel eyes up to meet my gaze and nodded. ‘It’s close.’ His ears were sharper than my own and the evening was clear. ‘Nearer to us I’d guess, but close.’

  With a sigh I returned to the cramped corner that served as my office, retrieving my sword, cloak and gloves before descending to the stable.

  ‘Well, Captain, what do you make of that?’

  I looked at my trusted sergeant, a gruff war veteran not much prone to displays of emotion. Now his face was thunderous, his one great fist clenched so tight the effort caused his whole body to tremble. When I peered into the room my sentiments echoed his.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be wanting my supper no more. Gods, what a mess. If it weren’t for the symbols I’d say this was a whole new problem.’

  The room was a ruin. What had probably been a family meal was now utter devastation. Whatever had been in here had torn the furniture apart in addition to, what according to the neighbours, had once been a family of four. Those same neighbours had refused to investigate the tumult emanating from these rooms, the top floor of a building that contained three other families.

  Such was the thrall fear and rumour had over the district, they had barred the doors and sat in prayer through the chaos. This had happened late at night, yet none had dared investigate and only much later gone to fetch the Watch. No doubt donations to the temples would again rise once word got out, something that was likely to be soon with the crowd gathering.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ called Count Antern, as his bodyguards battered a path for himself and another man I didn’t recognise.

  I was unsurprised to see Antern there so soon, he was said to be the king’s spy master after all. No doubt half the guard were in his pay. With a glance at his companion – a slender individual wearing expensively tailored clothes and an eye-patch, the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat extending down to the small point of a beard common among the city’s duellists – I began to tell what I knew.