The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign

by Lloyd, Tom

  ‘The windows of his study were fastened securely; in fact they had been nailed in by the stablehand that morning. An iron grille set into the brickwork protected the chimney flue, we cannot determine any possible point of entry that would leave no trace, nor alert the servants below who had remained in the building. As a last measure the same priest of Larat had consecrated the room, supposedly sealing it against intrusion by malign spirits.’

  ‘So, we have a room that must, as far as I can tell, contain the killer. Continue.’

  ‘The servants had received strict instructions not to intrude. They did not until it became clear the next morning that the marshal and lady had not left the room at all during the night. They broke the door down to discover their bodies lying on the floor; the marshal before the mirror, the Lady Calath a little way closer to the door, but evidently she had made that distance crawling weakly. The blood trail is quite distinct – that she made it even a few feet while losing so much blood attests to a remarkable strength of will.

  ‘The room was untouched, but there was a hole in the mirror – whatever had made that hole had smashed through the glass with enough force to shower them in shards. One such piece had torn the throat of the Lady Calath and remained lodged in the wound, the others caused a dozen minor wounds to each.

  ‘The marshal had died where he had stood. Some weapon or implement had been driven through his chest, crushing the bones that stood in its way before ripping at his heart and rending it to pieces. That is all they found and nothing was touched before I arrived.’

  He hesitated. ‘And there is our problem. Our only explanation is that Marshal Calath in some fit of madness murdered his own wife for no reason, then managed to rip out his own heart using just shards of a mirror.’

  Brandt stopped, seeing the effect his words had had on me. I bowed my head in prayer as I pictured the pale, waifish figure of Marshal Calath – my watchman’s mind making it all too easy to see him broken and dead on the floor. It was an even more shocking image when my thoughts turned to the joyful and gracious lady I had seen from afar on several occasions; pain where once there was only sweetness and cheer. Sitting down opposite me once more, Brandt maintained his silence while the awful scene played before both our eyes; a whirl of sickness and horror filling my head.

  Danc, perceiving the quiet from the room that he had left mere minutes before, took this quiet to be a natural break in proceedings and hurried in. He faltered somewhat when taking in my ashen features, wracked with confusion for a murder I could not explain no matter what my experience had boasted when Brandt arrived.

  Handing Commander Brandt an envelope with a muttered apology, Danc retired hurriedly and closed the door behind him. Brandt took one look at the seal and glanced up with increased concern etched on his youthful features.

  ‘It’s from the king. The courier must have been directed here from my office.’

  ‘Well open it, what does he say?’

  Drawing a knife from his belt, Brandt slid it under the seal and removed the expensive vellum that bore the crest of the king. As Brandt flashed the page toward me, I saw it was in the king’s own ornate script. The letter had not been sent by a palace functionary but King Emin himself.

  Brandt cleared his through. ‘It reads:

  ‘“Commander, The matter concerning the death of Marshal and Lady Calath is closed. The thief who broke in and committed this deed has been apprehended and justice served. You are to be commended for your efforts and I trust fanciful theories pertaining to this matter will be discouraged.”

  ‘I . . .’ Brandt looked up with a bewildered and pained expression, one I recognised only too well from my past.

  Rising, I took the papers from where Brandt had left them and dropped them into the empty fireplace. I had no intention of actually setting them alight, but the look in Brandt’s eyes showed I had secured the desired reaction of resigned agreement.

  ‘This isn’t the first time, trust me. The concerns of the king are not ours. Not justice, not the facts that detail each movement and action, not whatever you think of as truth. Truth is, to him, merely a weapon; a tool to use for whatever—’

  He raised a hand to cut my feeble speech short. With an effort that seemed to add twenty years to him, Brandt lifted himself from his seat and made his way to the door.

  ‘I’ve heard enough of your stories to know what you mean – and seen the king greet you personally, which tells me enough of their validity. You’ve been more of a father to me than my true sire. If you’ve lived with it and keep a respect for yourself then so can I.’

  He paused and stood a little taller before he continued. ‘Then so must I. I’ve always trusted your guiding hand when I couldn’t see the way myself. I hope you’ll explain to me one day, but until then I’ll follow.’

  He reached the door and then turned with a curious expression on his face. ‘Tell me one thing though. With the circles you run in now, who was it that wrote the book – the book that disproved the existence of the Azaer cult?’

  I gave him a weak smile, no humour in it but a trace of pride in the instincts he’d learned at my side.

  ‘A friend.’

  A MAN COLLECTING SPIRITS

  Morghien looked up at the man staring at him from the next table. A blacksmith’s brawn, a mule’s face and a pig farmer’s smell – this wasn’t encouraging. Ever since Morghien had sat down with his beer and taken that first blessed mouthful, mule-face had been glaring at him. It was late afternoon and the village tavern had a half-dozen patrons, but only this one was giving him the evil eye.

  Grey-haired and old enough to be unsure of when his prime had been, Morghien cut a nondescript figure at the best of times. The life of a restless wanderer did little for a man’s appearance and his face bore the marks of two lifetimes, neither of which had been a whole lot of fun. It wasn’t often he felt over-dressed in a tavern, but his soon-to-be adversary wasn’t even wearing boots. Everything below the man’s knee was caked in pale, crusting mud and his shirt was torn in several places.

  The farmer had clearly been working all day rather than drinking and Morghien guessed it had been the summer sun that turned the farmer’s mood rather than beer. Lady Midday’s whispers normally made a man faint or heave his guts, but Morghien had seen enough of the Land’s strangeness to rule nothing out.

  Gods, he can’t be sizing me up, can he? Morghien wondered with a sinking feeling. I look older than his father, what sort of shit-brained hick could think he needs to prove himself against me?

  Morghien gave the man a wide, friendly grin. It didn’t seem to improve matters. The farmer’s hand tightened into a fist and he didn’t take his eyes off Morghien even as he drained his own beer.

  There he goes. So much for a quiet drink.

  ‘Bit early isn’t it?’ Morghien called, quiet enough that only the folk nearest him paid any attention.

  ‘You talkin’ to me?’

  Morghien blinked. ‘My apologies – I assumed looking straight at you when I spoke would’ve been clue enough.’

  ‘You tryin’ to be smart?’

  ‘Doubt your reaction’s going to be much different either way,’ Morghien muttered under his breath. ‘Yes, I’m talking to you; you’ve been glaring at me since I came in. Now I might have pissed off folk up and down this fair Land, but I don’t reckon we’ve met before, so don’t you think it’s a bit early for the “we don’t like strangers in these here parts” crap?’

  ‘For an old bastard you got a big mouth on ya,’ the farmer growled, pushing himself to his feet. Turned out he looked bigger standing than hunched over a beer. ‘Strangers in these parts we don’t mind, but troublemakers get thrown out on their arses and I reckon I know which you is.’

  Morghien rolled his eyes, fighting the urge to let the man talk his way into trouble. He could frighten off the brainless mule easily enough, but he really didn’t need the trouble of a public display. Old he might have been, but Morghien had a few tricks lurking
in the dark corners of his mind – tricks even his friends in the Narkang Brotherhood wouldn’t choose to tangle with.

  All around him the room had fallen silent, tense and twitching like rabbits waiting to run. He took a moment to inspect the faces watching him from elsewhere in the tavern, determined not to rush into a confrontation for a change. Most of the onlookers seemed apprehensive at what the farmer was looking to start, but not all. A small woman sat at the end of the bar with a thin-faced man and they both simply watched the scene unfold.

  Dispassionate, iron-grey eyes watched him while the woman idly played knotted black threads through her fingers. Morghien had noticed her as soon as he’d arrived and done the right thing when he had, bought the witch a drink as a mark of respect before retreating to a table of his own. The man – her husband or something approximating it – had long dark hair, a thin beard and hollow cheeks, but the piercing eyes of a crow. He was at least curious and watched Morghien with a strange intensity, while the witch hadn’t decided to pay him much attention.

  ‘Is this how strangers are greeted in these parts?’ Morghien asked the room in general, his eyes on the witch. ‘When you first came here, Mistress, were they so friendly?’

  The witch took a sip of beer and considered the question. ‘Not so much,’ she said finally, prompting the man beside her to smile. ‘But you know respect sometimes has to be earned, sometimes taught.’

  The farmer glanced between Morghien and the witch, unwilling to back down, but not so stupid as to go against the witch’s wishes.

  ‘I’m a bit old for teaching anyone about respect,’ Morghien said.

  He glanced down as surreptitiously as he could at the axe that hung from a loop on his pack. He wasn’t sure he could reach it in time, which was a shame. It would be enough of a threat to make an unarmed man back off, while the dagger at his belt was more likely to get him killed than anything else. Every man wore a knife, certainly in parts such as these. Lady Midday might not be a spirit one feared, but there were plenty of others around that would do more than whisper at you.

  ‘Who says you’ll be doin’ the teachin’?’ the farmer snapped, trying to regain the initiative.

  ‘Oh I think you’d learn somethin’ any road,’ the witch drawled. ‘Might be a good lesson too. Or you could show our new friend here that you’re a real man and buy him a beer instead. Brawling’s for little boys after all, drinking’s for men I’m told.’

  The farmer pursed his lips, then gave a sharp nod and sat back down. He didn’t look happy with the outcome, but the witch’s tone had been clear enough; the fun was over. With an approving nod the witch touched the hand of the man beside her and he slipped behind the bar. When two beers had been poured the witch herself brought them over, sitting at Morghien’s table as she did so.

  Her grey hair was seamed with black. Looking closely, Morghien realised she wasn’t as old as he’d assumed – a good ten years younger than he himself appeared – but the eyes were cold and knowing. This close he knew for sure she wasn’t just a medicine woman, a soul like that ruled the village, not served it.

  Morghien accepted the beer and raised it in a toast to the farmer. The man gave a gruff grunt and looked away, but Morghien saw his shoulders relax a little and guessed the gesture had had the desired effect.

  ‘So stranger, why are you in these parts?’ the witch asked with a deliberate lack of edge to her tone.

  Without meaning to, Morghien glanced out the window. The shadows were long over the dirt path leading up to the tavern, the ghost hour wasn’t yet upon the Land.

  ‘Can’t a man be just passing through?’

  The witch gave a knowing smile. ‘Could be, but we’re not on the way to much here – and anyways, you ain’t a normal sort o’ stranger.’

  Morghien gave a snort. ‘Coming from a witch with a husband?’ he said softly, looking over at the thin man who’d returned to his seat at the bar.

  The man’s deep-set eyes and narrow beard made him look something rather more sinister than a tavern-owner, but he placidly endured Morghien’s attention and raised his drink in toast without comment.

  ‘Can you see me bein’ welcome at temple even for my own marriage?’ the witch asked levelly.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he conceded, ‘but when it looks like a dog and barks like a dog . . .’

  ‘It’s a bloody dog,’ the witch finished, ‘and oddity that you are, call me bitch and see how welcome you feel then.’

  Morghien grinned. Getting under the skin of others was something of a speciality of his. Often it still resulted in adding to his collection of scars, but folk became sloppy when they were annoyed and sometimes they let slip things they shouldn’t. In his line of business that was usually worth a little trouble.

  Without warning, the witch reached out and touched two fingers to the back of Morghien’s hand. He snatched it away, but was too late to stop her sensing something and the witch’s annoyance was replaced with curiosity.

  ‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you that was rude?’

  ‘Sometimes rude isn’t the worst outcome.’ She leaned forward and peered into his eyes. ‘There’s a whole mess of somethin’ inside you and that tells me I should know your business here before you get a friendly welcome.’

  Morghien hesitated. Having expected a threatening tone of voice, it wasn’t what he’d got at all.

  Hah, I’ve spent too much time with soldiers, always trying to piss the highest. Witches don’t need to bother there.

  ‘Ghost hour’s coming,’ he commented, sipping his beer.

  The witch’s eyes narrowed, then he saw a small spark in those grey eyes. ‘The watcher in the willows? Oh wonderful, some idiot with a handful of power thinks he can come and save us.’

  He didn’t rise to the bait. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t tried yourself.’

  ‘Some of us have more sense than power; you don’t know what you’re playin’ with here.’

  ‘Trust me; I’m not looking for a fight with anything or anyone.’

  ‘Then leave it be,’ the witch hissed, ‘no one round here walks the river-path ’cept when the sun’s out – I made sure of that and I don’t intend to let you stir up any more trouble than we already have.’

  ‘Then tell me more than I’ve already heard,’ Morghien insisted, ‘because I intend to head that way as soon as I’m finished.’

  The witch watched him like a cat for a long while, trying to read his whiskery face. He understood her concerns and gave her time to think. If what he’d heard was true, a careless hand could bring horror down upon the village, but Morghien knew she’d not have seen anyone like him in these parts.

  My own particular sort of fool, I am, but I know my limits.

  ‘I’m not here to play the hero,’ he said after a while, ‘I know when a risk isn’t worth taking.’

  She glanced outside. The sky was starting to darken to a deep, cloudless blue. A pair of pigeons hopped from branch to branch in a large oak just outside the tavern, from which was hung half a hundred long strips of colourful material. A week past, at the midsummer festival, the villagers would have hung offerings to the spirits of the forest from those dyed lengths. Morghien had inspected them before coming in; only the birds had touched the offerings, the local spirits had kept well clear.

  ‘Drink up,’ she said in a resigned voice. ‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

  ‘You see the line of willows?’ the witch said, pointing ahead. ‘Walk that way and it’ll speak to you.’

  Morghien nodded. There were half-a-dozen or more ancient hanging willows a hundred paces down-river; silent but for the sound of their tendrils dipping into the water under the urging of a gentle breeze. Anyone walking along this side of the river would have to pass underneath them and walk within the enclosed space below. He could barely see through the thick green fronds; the sun had only recently sunk below the horizon but the river bank was uncommonly gloomy.

  ‘You’ll not leave without giving somethin�
�� up,’ she warned.

  Morghien held up a silver coin that, despite the grime on it, glittered bright in the gloaming. ‘Not what it wants, but it’ll do.’

  ‘Don’t you anger it now.’

  ‘Oh I intend to do more than that,’ he said softly, still staring into the darkness under the willows but seeing nothing. ‘Something of a speciality o’ mine, that is.’

  ‘Then do it right,’ the witch said with finality. ‘I’ll be watchin’ too.’

  She plonked herself down on the riverbank with the ceremony of a little girl, arranging her skirts around her while gently slapping the bare soles of her feet on the water’s surface. Once comfortable she pulled out a tobacco pouch and stuffed a pipe with a dark brown wad. She pressed it down hard before leaving her thumb in the bowl for a while, then withdrew it hurriedly as the tobacco began to smoulder. She sucked hard on the pipe, waiting for it to be fully lit before washing her thumb in the river.

  ‘Go on then,’ the witch said, waving Morghien forward. ‘Don’t let me hold you up.’

  He stared a moment longer, realising the pipe had been a small demonstration for him – I have some power myself; make sure you can top that before going any further.

  ‘You’re a nag, woman,’ he replied with a smile and walked away, heading for the willows.

  Despite the summer evening, he couldn’t hear any birds or animals in the area. Only the river’s quiet burble broke the silence; no swallows came to drink during their evening hunt and he saw no nesting ducks in the rushes. There was only the heavy blue-grey of dusk settled over the surrounding trees and an uneasy silence.

  Before he reached the willows, Morghien stopped and looked into the water. He could see the bottom clear enough, it was not deep.

  ‘Come closer, stranger,’ came a voice as elusive and whispery as the wind, ‘come close so I may see the gentle lines of your face.’

  Morghien suppressed a smile. If the watcher in the willows thought him just some village simpleton, so much the better.

  He took a tentative step closer. The curtain of hanging willow branches was thick enough for him to be unable to make out much, all he could see was a dark, hunched shape wrapped in a long piece of cloth like a blanket.