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

  ‘The reason I brought you here, Magistrate, was to make this official and legal. The secrecy I think is justified. Certainly we don’t want this man brought before your court, but he admits his guilt so I do not believe that will prove necessary.’

  ‘But what crime is he charged with?’ demanded Derran, his legal persona taking charge.

  ‘Well, in short; he comes from Thistledell.’

  Calath sat and stared; numb with shock as that simple, innocent word echoed around the room. The grooms flinched and stared fixedly at the ground, knuckles white around the pitchforks. Derran half rose from his seat, mouth flopped open as the thick wattle of flesh beneath his chin shook. Of all the crimes Calath had imagined, this was furthest from his mind. His eyes darted to the motionless figure on the floor as he fought the urge to jump to his feet and flee.

  Thistledell.

  The name wasn’t spoken these days. The ideas it conjured were too horrific and most tried to forget about it. The fear was propagated by the fact that no one knew what had happened there. The few former inhabitants Calath had heard of had been totally insane when they had been caught, but their rantings had confirmed that something terrible had taken place.

  All the rest of the Land knew was that the tax collector for the local suzerain had travelled there as part of his annual rounds – to find the village gone. Signs pointing the way there had been destroyed; the buildings torn down and burned, the crops left in fields returning to the wild. Every remaining vestige of life had been erased; even the charred timbers had been buried.

  There had been simply nothing left, barely a trace that a village ever stood in that place and it had been clear it was a deliberate effort. The tax collector had sent a messenger back to the nearest town after ordering his guards to investigate the freshly turned earth. It was then they had found the blackened bones.

  ‘W . . . who is he?’ stammered Derran, rapidly collecting his thoughts while Calath still floundered.

  ‘His name, well the name he gave us, is Fynn. He’s been working here as a groom for almost six months now.’

  ‘You’ve been employing him?’ asked the magistrate in horror.

  ‘I know, but he kept himself to himself and worked hard. The head groom had no reason to complain.’

  Alscap said the words through a daze, as if repeating by rote something he could hardly believe. The tales had painted those who left Thistledell alive as monsters; capable only of violence and profane destruction. To have one in your employ, no doubt sometimes under the same roof as your children . . . Alscap looked nauseous, small beads of sweat appearing on his ashen brow.

  ‘Why the secrecy?’ asked Calath, at last finding his voice though it trembled through every word. ‘Why not bring him before the court?’

  Alscap gaped at the marshal, a flush of red returning to his cheeks. ‘And have to tell my daughter that this man has been allowed into the same house as her newborn? That aside, I breed some of the finest stallion hunters in the country? Who would buy them now? Who would want their horses to be stud from one tended by a man of Thistledell? Half my staff would leave my service overnight! How many of my guests would return after today?’

  Derran raised a hand to calm the count whose face had flushed red with rage. ‘I understand. You’re right, of course. This can be a very simple matter if he admits his guilt.’

  Calath made a puzzled sound at that so Derran leaned towards him to explain, his eyes never leaving Fynn.

  ‘No one knows what actually happened there, other than it was of the basest level. The king decided it was best to simply issue a private decree to all magistrates that coming from Thistledell was a capital offence. Technically he should be brought before me in the morning, but if he admits his guilt we can hang him and dispose of the body without allowing this to taint Alscap’s household.’

  ‘Hang him? Now? Here? Do you plan to just bury the body in the woods like a murderer? This cannot be the king’s intention!’ protested Calath.

  Derran turned to face his friend, his expression sober and deadly serious. ‘It is mere expediency, and as for the legality or intention, you yourself know the king. The law is his will, nothing more for all that he has codified it. You can’t tell me he would deal with this openly?’

  Calath stared in fearful wonder at his friend’s tone, before realising he was right. The king would have no qualms about a swift and silent death; no doubt the Brotherhood had done exactly that many times, in the public interest of course.

  It was the way of the world – a world Calath was part of for all his remote life, and a world he owed his privileged position to. The order brought to their nation was due to the careful, and at time merciless, hand of their king. Without that deft touch they would still be living in feuding principalities and his peaceful academic life would be nothing more than a dream.

  ‘I . . . you’re right, I apologise.’

  Derran kept his gaze for another moment, but then lowered his eyes, slightly embarrassed at his own actions.

  ‘As do I, but I hope you will forgive my tone under these circumstances. Now Count Alscap, for this to be as it should I must hear the man’s own admission.’

  The count nodded and gestured to one of his grooms. The man, keeping a safe distance, reached out with the blunt handle of his pitchfork and carefully nudged the prone figure. The man calling himself Fynn jerked at the unexpected touch, but when ordered to rise, didn’t move. A second prod encouraged the man, groaning and wheezing softly, to push himself up and sit up against the wall.

  He was younger than Calath had expected. The marshal guessed at no more than twenty-five winters, but it was hard to estimate after such a battering. He’d have hardly been a man when whatever madness it was fell upon Thistledell. Calath felt a stab of pity for the boy, until he remembered the tax collector’s report he’d read back at his club in Narkang. Limbs had been sawn off, bones gnawed. They had reason to fear him.

  ‘When was he beaten?’ asked Derran suddenly.

  ‘When they realised who he was, he tried to escape. He’d been sleeping in the dormitory and apparently had some sort of nightmare. Vorte there can tell you more specifically.’

  Alscap pointed to a hard-faced man with a bulbous nose and a thick beard that half-obscured a permanent scowl. He was older than the others, nearing fifty winters, but as nervous as the boys as he began to speak in a deep gravely drawl.

  ‘He woke us up early, shoutin’ all sorts in his dream. Started screamin’ on about blood and buryin’ the village. We thought it was just a bad dream; he’s always been a quiet one, moody like. But then he started on about Thistledell and we realised what he was on about.

  ‘Then he woke and saw us, but I don’t think he was all the way awake. When Mijok here asked why he’d said “Thistledell”, he said it was his home. He realised what he’d said pretty quick and made a jump for the window, but I caught hold of him. Bastard put up one hell of a fight, but there was three of us. Mijok slammed his head against the wall and he went down. We dragged him here to lock him in and fetched Master Kote.’

  The man stopped, looking nervous under Derran’s unblinking gaze and Calath couldn’t help but wonder whether they had met in a professional capacity before.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the magistrate after a time. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and attended his nose before continuing. Calath knew it to be a nervous habit, but the other men there marvelled at his cool demeanour, that Derran could be calmly taking his time before returning his attention to the monster. Eventually he did look back to Fynn.

  ‘So, you’ve heard the charge and had time to gather your thoughts. What say you?’

  The man looked up, his face a battleground of fear and shame. Looking from one face to another he found disgust in that of the count, the grooms could not bear the sight of their former friend and Derran’s was the stony mask of a man passing sentence. His eyes lingered on Calath, who could not drive all sympathy from his heart at that plaintive fac
e. Fynn said nothing to him, he made no appeal but betrayed a flicker of wonder before returning to the magistrate.

  ‘It’s true,’ he said at last.

  The words were no more than a whisper, but only Derran did not start at the sound.

  ‘You understand what your admission entails? The law demands that you be taken and hung by the neck until you are dead, without delay.’

  ‘I understand. It’s time to stop running.’

  With that the wretched figure buried his head in his arms. Derran looked from the count to Calath, a strain of relief at last visible.

  ‘Well then, we should not delay if we are to keep this between us. I hope your grooms understand that this matter is not to be discussed ever again?’

  Alscap nodded. ‘They worked together for six months, they were his friends. To protect my stock I’ll keep them on, to protect themselves they’ll stay and be silent.’

  Fervent nods greeted those words and so Derran eased himself up with the help of his walking stick.

  ‘Then we will need a noose.’ It sounded as if he hardly believed the words himself but had to press on before his nerve failed him.

  ‘Wait,’ said Calath suddenly. ‘I should take his account.’

  ‘What?’ cried Alscap in horror. ‘What possible reason could you have for that?’

  ‘Several, in fact.’ Calath could hardly believe his own words, but the look in Fynn’s eyes had stirred something within him and he knew the king would also want to know more.

  ‘First of all, we don’t know what happened in Thistledell. There are very few things the king detests, but a lack of knowledge is chief among those. We may never have another chance to understand what happened there, what evil walked our lands and perhaps might again. Secondly, for my research, be this madness or the work of daemons.’

  The others looked horrified at the notion, but Alscap’s protests had stopped short at the mention of the king. If the marshal was truly known to the king, then he must have a function of sorts no matter how feeble and protected he appeared. The king had no time for people he could not use.

  ‘Very well, but at your own risk.’ Alscap looked like he was trying to read Calath’s expression, but the marshal was so confused in himself his face betrayed little.

  ‘Could you please leave us? And fetch me some paper and ink?’

  Derran arched an eyebrow, but the count raised a hand to silence him. His face betrayed new-found respect, but in case Calath was speaking out of bravado he laid a caveat in his agreement.

  ‘If you’re sure, but we leave the door open and Mijok will be watching. You keep enough of a distance that Fynn’ll get a fork through the ribs before he can harm you.’

  Neither Calath, nor the burly young groom looked entirely happy with the suggestion, but they made no comment and the others retreated out into the light. The call of hunting horns in the distance reminded Calath that life was continuing oblivious and sparked an ache in his heart. He didn’t know whether it was good or bad, that so much went unnoticed, or that the world could continue so easily.

  Calath didn’t move until Kote had returned with several sheets of parchment, a quill and a small inkwell. The marshal kept his eyes on the motionless man ahead, part of him comparing distances to see whether he was truly safe. Once Kote had retreated, Calath used his good leg to kick a chair towards the condemned man. It skidded for a yard before the packed earth floor upended it at Fynn’s feet. The man cautiously raised his head and risked a look at Calath.

  ‘Sit.’

  Fynn looked suspicious for a while, glancing warily at Mijok and the long steel prongs his former friend held ready. With a grimace, Fynn lifted himself up, gingerly touching fingers to his temple and lip, before righting the chair.

  ‘You’ll be dead within the hour, probably well before that. All I offer you now is the chance to put history straight – whether you choose to tell the truth is up to you. Don’t think this will ever clear your name, if the king believes you, and I’ll tell you now I’ve never seen him misled, then perhaps a handful of men will see it.’

  Fynn nodded, wincing. ‘I understand. What do you want to know?’

  ‘I want you to tell me what happened in Thistledell, what you did and why. Tell me in your own words, we have a little time.’

  When Fynn had finished speaking, Calath sat in silence, staring down at the page he had not even touched with ink. Whether he could ever bring himself to write those words, Calath was unsure. Perhaps it would be better if they were never given form. At the silence, Count Alscap poked his head around the door, then motioned for Mijok to fetch the prisoner and bind his hands. The others didn’t enter and Fynn had time to meet Calath’s eyes.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Calath nodded, unable to speak. Fynn’s eyes were brimming with tears, but strangely he didn’t look afraid now. Calath took in his bearing and saw him as a changed man. It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, or perhaps a curse.

  The marshal sat there even as they all left. He had intended to go with Fynn and be with him to the last, but now he realised he didn’t have the strength, and in some way it was unnecessary. He had given the man a final gift and the prisoner walked calmly to his death. For his last few minutes Fynn would be himself. He had thrown off the taint that had followed him for years and there was nothing more he could be given beyond peace.

  Calath hadn’t offered the man empty forgiveness, hadn’t said he understood. The crippled marshal had simply heard the tale of Thistledell and not hated the man before him. He had still seen a human being sitting there instead, something he realised Fynn had not considered himself in years.

  When Calath heard a faint snap from the adjoining stable, a solitary tear rolled down his face. Alscap and Derran returned with stony faces, both staring down at the blank page before the marshal.

  ‘Come, my friend,’ said the magistrate, helping Calath to his feet. ‘Let us get inside. It’s a grim day’s work but nothing brandy won’t cure I hope, and the company of Lady Meranna might restore some faith in the world to you.’

  ‘Meranna? A fine woman,’ joined Alscap, clapping a hand on Calath’s shoulder. He shook his head. ‘I’d have thought her too spirited for you before, but not now. His was a tale I never want to hear, whatever use the king might find for it.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll thank the Gods if some happiness comes out of today, if you want me to speak to Sir Pardel for you I’ll gladly do so. But brandy first, I think.’

  Fynn’s Testimony

  It’s been years since I could admit where I’m from. It feels good to be able to say the name again. After those years of running, I don’t fear it no more. Since I helped destroy the memory of Thistledell, I’ve lied every day o’ my life. Before I die I want to have one last day of truth. It won’t save me from the Dark Place, I know I’m damned but I— But you want to know what happened. Well, I’ll try.

  From a village of near two hundred souls, sixteen lived to pull down the houses, tear up walls and paths, salt the fields and burn the bodies. We hoped we could erase the memory of what’d happened, make the world forget Thistledell had existed. How many of us remain I couldn’t tell you, I ran the one time I saw another, but I hope some have found peace. We can’t all be to blame. We were no different to the neighbouring villages.

  It was the Coronation Festival. He was a minstrel. We didn’t think to ask why he was so far from a town for festival week, we were just glad to have him. Thistledell had a good reputation for merriment in the area. In the whole district no other village would claim to put on better entertainment, to have a grander spirit during feast days and festivals. We were proud o’ that. Not boastful, but we worked hard on our preparations, harder than any other village. Perhaps we thought his presence to be our just dues. I don’t remember now.

  I was working in my father’s inn when he arrived at the door. He knew my name already, said he’d been told our village was a joyous place to spend festival. And it was. Thistledell was
such a happy village, not wicked as some have said; not deserving of such a curse, just a happy place to grow up where people didn’t work too hard to enjoy life a little. Anyway, we were all so excited; it was going to be such a fine week. There were all manner of games, a different feast planned for each night, the king’s colours hung from every tree and building. Yes, the king’s colours. We might’ve been far from Narkang, but we were as loyal as you’ll find anywhere between the Three Cities. If I had a life to stake on it I’d not hesitate.

  He wasn’t from around the shire, nor any Narkang suzerainty I’ve visited since. Whether he was from anywhere I don’t know. For years I thought he was Farlan, but I met a wagoneer from Perlir and I realised he couldn’t have been. His skin wasn’t so fair, and the accent like none I’ve ever heard. But we didn’t wonder too hard about that at the time, only about the tales he could tell us, the songs he’d know.

  There was something about him that made us all like him. Straight away I mean, and not just the girls who thought he was the prettiest man they ever met. You took one look into those eyes, so black you almost thought they were just holes, and you couldn’t say no to him. You didn’t want to say no.

  I . . . I don’t remember much o’ that time, only feelings. When I try to think about it, all I can remember is dread, and awfulness at what happened. I couldn’t remember what had gone on, who had done what, but I could taste the terrible things even if I couldn’t see what they were. The last thing I remember was standing at my father’s bar watching the minstrel sleep. There was a smile on his lips and he was snoring softly, but it sounded like music to me. And he was beautiful; did I tell you that? Not like a woman is, not enticing, just . . . beautiful. You could stand there all day and just stare at him; it made you feel that the world was a better place.

  After that, I don’t know. Sometimes I dream of sitting down to eat or playing one of the games we had laid out, it almost seems normal them. But most are too terrible to say, just images – disgusting images. I get them when I’m awake sometimes, bad enough to make me sick when I’m working. I just have to squat down and hope no one is watching, mostly I blame it on the dogs bringing up something they’ve eaten.